Because Bullets are Faster

So a few updates:

• Buddy is six now! And starting Kindergarten in just a few weeks! I'm going to be honest: there are days when I'm excited for him to start (the stimulation, meeting new friends, and what I'm hoping will be an 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' attitude toward his wrestling opponent brother), and then again there are days when it hits me how strange it is going to be not having him here with us all day, every day. And that it'll be almost a year before he's back home full-time with us again during the day..... 
• Brother and Sister are a few weeks shy of their third birthday! Oy... How are they that big already? I started when they were not even three months old, and now three YEARS old?! "Snuck up on us" doesn't quite do it justice.
• There is a pup in the mix, as of January (if memory serves). He is an adorable, sweet boxer named Ranger. I would take him home with me in a heart beat, but something tells me The Kids might notice...
• I am praying about possibly going back to school for another degree in the near future. We'll see how it all shakes out though.
• Dating is fun! Well, most of the time. ;)
• The twins are potty training! And rocking at it. But frankly, we're running out of reward Twizzlers for successful toilet attempts. And NOT because I rewarded myself with a Twizzler each time they got one too. Absolutely not. Ahem.

Also, please join me in praying for these two sweet friends of mine, Allyson and Todd

Illness sucks. But God is bigger. And if anyone can bounce back from cancer, it's these two!

It's Gonna Kill Me

If you had driven through the neighborhood about half an hour ago, you may have been treated to the sight of a wild-eyed nanny, shrieking a little girl's name and running back and forth in front of the house, checking every end of the porch and side yards...

This phase the twins are rocking right now has aged me by about 15 years so far. It came about suddenly and has caused about 4 heart attacks so far to myself and I'm sure their parents as well.

It's the hiding-from-adults phase.

It's all well and good most of the time. The child latch remains on the door about 99% of the day, and so if one or both of the twins goes out of sight for a moment or two and doesn't answer when called, logic tells me they're huddled together, giggling that Miss Demmyn can't see them. And eventually they come out. Especially if my voice gets stern or I implement "the countdown".

Today was the exception. And honestly, my heart rate has not returned to normal yet.

It was nap time, and I sent each kid to his or her room to lay down while I finished bringing the heavy water bottles in from my car in the driveway. As I shut the front door, Sis appeared at the top of the stairs and announced she had a dirty diaper and therefore was unable to function until it was changed. I sighed, turned around to go downstairs, and grabbed her wipes from the living room and a pull up from her parents room. When I got up to the nursery, both twins were missing, (but Buddy obeyed!). I quickly found Brother huddled in the closet, grinning like the Cheshire cat, but no Sis.

Playing along for a minute, I searched room to room upstairs calling for her, looking in all her usual spots.

Nothing.

Maybe she snuck downstairs? Not outside the realm of possibilities.

Searched downstairs. Calling her name.

Nothing.

My voice getting more serious, I went back upstairs and re-searched, occasionally calling out a stern "THIS ISN'T FUNNY, TELL ME WHERE YOU ARE!!" to the empty rooms.

Still nothing.

Moving quicker, and calling even more loudly, nothing, nothing, nothing...

Finally I stopped where I was in the center of the house and called out her full name loudly followed by the dreaded "YOU ANSWER ME BY THE COUNT OF THREE!!!!!" that she never gets because she usually pops out by this point. All the kids usually will pop out when I use my stern voice. But not this time.

I reached "3" and could feel my heart beating itself wildly against my ribcage.

"Where's the last place I saw her..." I mumbled to myself, still sprinting around aimlessly, throwing open doors and tossing around blankets and other would-be hiding spots at random. "She was at the top of the stairs. Said she had a dirty diaper. Got diapers.... Water bottles... Wait, were the water bottles before or after...?"

Grasping at straws and panicked, I unlatched the door and hurtled down the driveway, calling her name. Think I scared the crap out of a neighborhood older kid who was coming down the sidewalk on his bike when Crazy Lady came running out of the house, almost foaming at the mouth. He swerved and barely missed ramming the mailbox.

(If I wasn't so singularly focused, I probably would have been quite entertained.)

No Sis on the porch, no Sis in the yard, no Sis anywhere...

I ran back inside, and without holding back, mustered every last ounce of voice and sternness mixed with panic I could and yelled out her full name followed by "YOU COME OUT RIGHT THIS SECOND!!!! NOW!!!" (I don't think I've ever gotten that loud with these kids before...)

This caused Buddy to fling his door open as well and add his worry to his shout of "NOW SIS!!!!"

As I turned to dart back outside out of panic, Buddy suddenly yelled "here she is!!"

And there she was. Top of the stairs. Looking quite proud.

After I got onto her about hiding and not answering when people first use serious voice, she had only this to say: "But... But... I like to hide. And I found a good spot. No one could find me!"

See? I'm not going to survive this phase. I'll be 95 physically before their third birthday, of this I am sure...

Disney+Cough Medicine= ????

Today is a sick day in the house of The Kids. Everyone (including myself) is coughing up a lung, and exhausted, and it's storming to boot.

So today, Disney shall entertain. And the rest of us shall shoot cough medicine at the required intervals. First up is Little Mermaid, and as the kids sit enraptured watching the final battle between the sea witch and the sea-crossed lovers, I can't help but let my mind wander a bit. In this case, I imagined the story from an outsider's perspective, as one of the guests of Eric and Ursula's "wedding" recalls the events of the day.

Wedding Guest-
"I just got back from the Prince's wedding cruise. It was normal at first. Ya know, same old story. Then suddenly seagulls swooped in, flipping out, spraying crap, seals attacked, things got crazy... Then this one mute girl hopped up out of the water and started singing, the groom went to make a move on her, but she turned into a fish. Then the bride turned into an octopus, grabbed the mute-singing-fish-girl and jumped into the sea. Next thing I know, the octopus-lady-bride-thing is like a thousand feet tall, yelling about power all the way up until the prince stabbed her with a random ship. Then we had cake and went home."

I'd think that guest was high.

To Kill A Copperhead

In honor of snake season starting up here in north Texas, I thought I'd share the southern way of getting your point across to snakes. Which happened at work last summer, and which I hope to never happen again.

Step 1: Find a poisonous snake on your front porch.

Which was our case. With the then-18-month-old twins dangerously nearby. It was a copperhead. No señor.

Step 2: Make your decision. Fight or flight.

Mom-of-the-Kids? Flight. I learned in that moment of her deep and abiding phobia of snakes. Add in the shock of finding a poisonous one inches from your hand, and suffice it to say, her face was a little green and her voice at a slightly higher octave than normal.

Myself? Never having had a poisonous snake on my porch before, I halfway expected to also be of the "flight" variety. I was shocked to find myself all Hulked up with righteous hell-to-the-naw vengeance against the creepy little thing.

Step 3: Choose your weapon, and go Marie Antoinette on its venomous ass.

Mine was an ax plucked from the woodpile in the backyard. When the thing saw I was serious, we played a short game of hide and seek amongst the porch's piles of lumber and grills. And in that moment, I suddenly found myself wildly obsessed with the desire to have had thick boots on. Instead of no shoes at all...

Then you chop. When he strikes at you, chop again.

Step 4: Dead does not mean safe.

Don't jack with the body right after its dead. It's jaws can still clamp. And you can still find yourself in the ER with an anti-venom shot in your wherever.

Step 5: Dispose.

Some choose to trash the remains. Us? We had Dad-of-the-Kids toss him over the back fence to the snake-infested creek beyond.

As a warning to the others.

Thankfully, that was our only venomous snake encounter last year. Whether it be because God knew our hearts couldn't take another sudden stop and He had already wiped the years of laughter from His eyes, or ya know, maybe our "warning" to the copperhead brethren was heeded after all.

Probably the former.

The Arm

Mondays don't really bother me. Wait, I lied. Monday ALARM CLOCKS irritate the snot out of me. But Mondays themselves? Not so bad.

Part of the reason is the greeting I always receive when I walk in the door at work. I can always count on Sis's excited squeal of "DEDYN!!!!!!! You came back home to meeeee!!!!!" as she comes barreling through the living room to hug me at the door.

How many people get that kind of greeting from their coworkers every Monday?

But today when I stepped over the threshold, no grinning little girl tackled me hello. Instead she was cuddled up with her momma on the living room recliner, sipping her requisite strawberry milk, clutching her pink blanket, and looking generally pitiful.

Mom-of-The-Kids informed me Sis had been playing a little rough with her dad and brothers the night before (well-- rough for HER, that little dainty thing... The most rough-housing she generally participates in is a piggy-back ride and playing Tickle Monster) and she had began mentioning that her arm was sore shortly after. It wasn't a dramatic thing, just a little girl retreating from bath time and further playing in favor of snuggling up with some cartoons and chill time.

This morning, however, was a different story. The normally-agile Sis laid in bed calling for her momma's help in sitting up and getting out of bed. And since that moment, Sis wouldn't move her arm at all and was very uncomfortable anytime the arm was jostled in any way. She preferred the arm to lay unmoving across her leg and wouldn't allow it to be touched in any capacity.

Poor thing.

We gave her some Tylenol and indulged her every whim for a few hours until she could see the doctor.

She didn't hate it.

Apparently it was something called Nursemaid's Elbow and is fairly common in toddlers... An exam and adjustment at the doctor, and an hour later she was playing like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Now, Mom-of-the-Kids? Seeing her baby hurting that way today, AND being present for the doctor's adjustment? SHE may need some heart medication.

Scratch that. She needs a margarita.

Discount Massage

I have only had two massages in my life. Which puts me in a good place, I think: that's two more than a lot of people, but considerably less than others.

However, 1 of those massages was just plain traumatizing... Which defeats the purpose of a massage altogether.

A little over a year ago, I went to Kentucky to spend a long weekend with one of my best friends, Carrie, who followed her passion for All Things Equestrian to the land of races and ginormous hats.

Someone (I don't remember who, either she or I) suggested we venture out to the nearby massage school for discount massages. I, being uneducated in such things, was reassured by Carrie that only the "senior" students--those soon to graduate-- can take clients and the cost is considerably less, since the masseuses (masseie? Massees?) are not yet fully certified. She went on to assure me that she had always gotten good quality results from such experiences before, and that it would be a fun and relaxing girl's activity for us.

Recap. Relaxing massage + cheap + good quality = I'm in!

After arriving at the massage school and filling out the required paperwork, we were introduced to our masseuses. My guy was in his late twenties, maybe. Smaller stature. Long black pony tail. Facial hair. Creepy small hands-- That he rubbed together nervously (a lot).

But I trusted Carrie.

We began the massage experience awkwardly enough, when I, fairly naked under the sheet, was asked what kind of massage I would like, and if I had any special requests.

Blink blink. "Um, I've never had a massage before so I guess let's just do the basic, no frills. And special requests? Like, I guess my back and shoulders?"

"Well, for instance, some of my clients request special attention to their pecs..." he suggested.

"No. No thanks. Just back and shoulders." I answered quickly, making a mental note to go Chuck-Norris-meets-Kung-Fu-Panda on his ass should he continue to think my pecs needed his special touch.

The massage began. He instructed me to let him know if the pressure was too much or too little, and he'd adjust accordingly. For example, he started out WAY too gentle. My skin felt petted, rather than my muscles massaged. I told him so, so he apologized, "adjusted", and continued.

Except it was the same petting. No change in pressure.

I tried again a few more times to get him to adjust, and he always agreed to, but never changed. Awkward. I caught myself wondering if this guy was legit... Or if perhaps the back door to the school had unknowingly been left unlocked and he had snuck in for a day of fun-filled creepiness.

Let's review: an uncomfortable looking, ponytailed man with nervous twitches, small hands, and an inclination for my pecs had me locked in a small dark room with him for an hour of oily petting.

And he didn't even buy me dinner first.

After the hour was mercifully up, and Carrie and I got back into her car, she stretched out her arms with a relaxed sigh and said "Gah, that was awesome! Didn't I tell you? How was yours?"

"Just dandy."

...And that, folks, is the story of why Carrie is billed for Devyn's therapy.

That's How it Goes...

Some days I'm up and running, fueled by natural energy, excitement on greeting a beautiful morning, and all that...

And then there are mornings like this--- don't get me wrong, I'm no less blessed today than other days, and today is no less beautiful. It's just that the most entrancing and captivating thought on my mind revolves around this---