Tag Archives: Little Ones

Unfreezing Through Stream of Consciousness

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Here is the problem with taking a writing hiatus: you have no idea how to pick up where you left off. After two weeks of writing nothing, I’m not sure where to start. So I think I’ll just do a stream of consciousness recap of whatever comes to mind. I may expand on some things later (and I take requests!), but here’s the overview.

I was so sad that I couldn’t be at BlogHer, but I checked Twitter periodically to see what my friends were up to and read the post mortems – all of which were strangely satisfying… Maybe I don’t have to go – I can just read about it and feel like I was there?

One of the session topics that I’ve seen mentioned involved “finding your tribe” and I’ve found myself thinking about who my tribe is. The people I read and who read me are kind of all across the board… I have connections to people who consider themselves to be writers and people who claim to be straight up mommy bloggers with no writing talent (although I sometimes beg to differ). I know artists and designers, as well as style bloggers. I follow DIY gurus and green thumb goddesses. And I’ve shed many a tear from both laughing and crying. I don’t know that I can pick out one solid group that defines me – which is what I’ve always thought a tribe does: defines you.

It all reminds me of high school. But apparently that was how a lot of people felt about BlogHer. I told Stiletto Mom in an e-mail that I imagine I would have done pretty well at BlogHer because I was very good at high school. Of course I didn’t know it at the time, and assumed I was kind of a dork. But looking back, I can see that I was far more focused on my individual friendships than any need to keep up with the popular crowd. I was generally happy to make the most of where I was with very few longing glances at groups across the room. So if it works out, I think I will head up to NYC in 2010. And there will be an open invitation to join me at my lunch table – wherever that happens to be.

While everyone was reliving the 11th grade at BlogHer, I was at Rehoboth Beach reliving my youth. I love that beach… The beach itself was hideously crowded since our house was right in the center of things. But as a city kid (now at heart of course, since I live in the sticks), I will take shops and restaurants over quiet beaches. We could drive to a quiet beach if that’s what we wanted. I want to be able to walk to the boardwalk to pick up my iced coffee.

I’ll do a beach post with pictures next week. My camera broke about three days into the week (or more accurately, George broke it when he smacked it out of my hand during an evening walk – like I’m his paparazzi or something). My mother in law has all of the pictures after that, so she’ll have to send them to me.

Speaking of George smacking things out of my hands – the twins have turned into monsters. Remember when I jokingly compared them to this?


Yeah – not laughing anymore. They are really cute…


…but throw water on them, or take a ball point pen away from them, or tell them “no” or something and this is what happens:


I moved them into Oliver’s room recently so they’re all on the same schedule now. I couldn’t do two bedtime routines anymore and this was the only way it was going to work for us. So far, I like our new set up. The routine involves a bit too much jumping around for my liking, but when it’s time for lights out, everyone goes to their respective beds. Oliver is very much the enforcer when it comes to our bed time script and prompts me in a stage whisper, “okay – now go wie [lie] down mommy…okay now kiss Eleanor…now George…” It’s a bit disconcerting though because his stage whisper sounds like a devil voice. Not so fond of this in the dark…thank god for Twilight Turtle.

They are pretty cute though when I go into their room in the morning. They’re usually all twined up in a pile like puppies. I’ll have to take a picture.

Aside: Chris is watching a show like Cops right now, and I have to wonder, do men EVER wear shirts on these shows? Either way, they certainly aren’t doing any ab work.

Speaking of abs – I’ve been attempting to do the 30 Day Shred. Except I was unable to walk on day two, let alone do jumping jacks, so it was more like the every other day Shred that first week. Then I was vacation for week three and preferred to keep my exercise recreational. So far, I’ve only shredded once in the few days that I’ve been back, but I think I’m ready to get back on track. I’m not going to put too much pressure on myself (a surefire way to make me hate it), so it will probably be more of an every once in a while Shred kind of thing.

I like doing this now that I’m a stay at home mom. Previously, I’d worry about getting my workout in and having enough time to get ready for work and get the kids ready for daycare by our 8 a.m. leave time. So this freedom to officially start our day (i.e. turn off the TV for AT LEAST 30 minutes) at 9 a.m. without worrying about a commute is quite refreshing.

Speaking of being a stay at home mom – I really need to change my profile. I’ll try to remember that when I finish this post…

And it’s going well, thanks for asking. Except for the being good at it part. That’s still a work in progress. Previously, most of my “go to” plans for days alone with children involved food and television. Apparently this is frowned upon by people who have a thing against childhood obesity. God they’re judgey.

So I decided to attempt a home school program for preschoolers that my husband found on this site. It’s really great. Unfortunately, my children are defective. They don’t think that fun things are…fun. For instance, week one is supposed to be devoted to activities involving cows. FUN right? Well they? Don’t agree.

Monday morning at 9 a.m. I announced that we would be playing games about cows. After receiving three blank stares, I thought I’d jump right into some gross motor activities. “Okay,” I continued as I dropped down on all fours, “let’s all pretend we’re cows! Look at me – MOOOOO. Can you be a cow too? MOOOOO.” Oliver crawled over to me and said “NEIGH! Oliver’s a horse!” Of course Eleanor wanted to be a horse too. And I’m not sure what George was doing…maybe emptying the toy box?

So I gave up on that idea and put everyone in the car to hit the library and search for books on cows. We’ve only attempted the library a couple of other times, and they haven’t quite grasped the concept of being quiet and not trashing the place. But with our new cow-related mission, I figured that we had some direction.

The first thing they did when we arrived was run through the aisles in a kind of zig zag formation all the way to the opposite end of the library. I ran behind whisper-yelling at them to STOP (a stage whisper very similar to Oliver’s devil voice, now that I think of it…), which of course they ignored until I caught up to them and said that we would have to leave if they didn’t stop running.

I won’t bore you with details about them dismantling three shelves while I doggedly tried to read to them, my complete inability to understand the Dewey Decimal system, or the fact that we had to leave once they started running again. But can tell you that we did not find, let alone read one book on cows.

So far the rest of the week has been more of the same – but I feel that we’re making some headway. I’m very close to identifying the exact pitch to use while yelling for them to understand that I’m serious. Now THAT is progress.

Best part of the day? Right after the twins’ nap, I take them to the pool and I recline on a chaise while they splash around in the baby pool. This seems to be the ONLY activity that doesn’t require my constant participation.

So expect to see me on Twitter between 4-6 p.m. Unless of course it’s raining. Then we’ll all be eating cookies in front of the TV. But really good educational TV – maybe about cows.

My Hardest Break Up – By Far

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DC is a hard town when you’re trying to meet that one in a million person. The one who is just perfect for you. The one who will really “get” you and your family like no one else does.

And we all wonder why it is so hard… It’s a semi-big city with a lot of people out there looking for their perfect match. There are websites and services specifically dedicated to this. There are friends who want to help. And of course there are unlimited social networking resources.

But in spite of it all, the entire process is like finding a needle in a haystack. So when you do find “the one,” it feels like a miracle.

Unfortunately, not all relationships are meant to last. Some just run their course. But even when it’s mutual, it can still be very painful.

“We’ve both known that this day would eventually come,” I said.

“I know,” she agreed.

“It’s just so hard to believe that it’s over,” I quavered.

“Don’t cry,” she implored.

“I just didn’t expect it to be so hard,” I admitted.

“It always is…” she replied.

After four magical years, it’s over. And so very final.

I just don’t know if I’ll ever get over Gordana. She truly was the daycare provider of my dreams.
But with three small children in full time care, we recently decided that the minimal amount of money we cleared after writing that weekly check just wasn’t enough to justify the lack of time we spent with our special needs child. Oliver turned four at the end of March and we simply need at least one parent to be available to drive him to appointments and create a more structured home life. When your kids consider evenings and weekends to be vacation time from the daycare schedule, it’s very hard get them to listen, take time outs seriously and eat something more than Goldfish crackers for dinner.

Gordana and I broke up a few weeks ago, but this was really my first official week as a stay at home mom. We were at the beach last week, and it’s only now that we’re back that it’s started to sink in. From now on, daycare will be all me, all the time – 24/7 – no lunch breaks, no sick days and no Gordana to make up for where I fall short.

We always said that our daycare provider was magical. She got the children to eat vegetables, take naps, share, sit still for story time and transition from one activity to another without even a hint of a meltdown. We also speculated that she may have just drugged them. Which of course would make me furious. How dare she not share that prescription!

Sadly, there doesn’t seem to be any tried and true prescription for good parenting. Just a lot of trial and error. And patience. And of course love. And while I do have a long way to go before winning any mother of the year awards, I have enough patience and love for ten children (although I’ll just stick with three, thanks).

Not one of my children is easy. Oliver is a special needs kid. One with enough Autism Spectrum behaviors to get us an PDD-NOS label from one doctor. He is huge and strong – and he is very sensory. Life with him can feel like an extended wrestling tournament at times. And his siblings have followed his lead. I can’t sit on the floor without bracing myself for small hurtling bodies and grasping limbs. I often joke that we look like a Cirque de Soleil family (that is if one of them hasn’t cut off my air supply with a choke hold around my neck while I’m thinking it).

Eleanor and George don’t seem to be special needs children (yet), but they are two year old twins. That in and of itself makes them a formidable parenting challenge – but even on their own, they will each give me a ten mile run for my money. Eleanor is one of those two-going-on-twelve girls, and her current level of defiance makes me very nervous about the teen years.

And George…screams. Holy mother – but that boy can scream. I suppose the word for him would be “intense,” but I’m too distracted by the high pitched shrieking to give it much thought. When you worry that the seismic waves emanating from your child’s vocal chords may be causing tectonic plates in the Atlantic Ocean to shift and stir up a little tidal wave or two (apparently DC is close enough to the Chesapeake Bay for this to be a concern)…well, the “why” factor is a bit less compelling as the “please god make it stop” factor.

Yet Gordana always claimed that they were “perfect” for her.

And I want to know how. How did she do that? Joking aside about the drugs – she got my wild animal children to adhere to a schedule. And happily comply. Compliance isn’t a predominant theme in my house – so I will have my work cut out for me.

I can’t ask her to divulge her secret because I’m sure it’s just a simple formula that works for her. One that wouldn’t work for me, because there is no one answer for everyone. Ultimately we all have to find our own way. At the moment, my way seems to involve a bit too much TV and snack food. But I’m working on that.

We love Gordana. But we outgrew her. She only watches small children, so it would soon be time to leave her regardless of our other reasons.

She will always hold a special place in our hearts. She raised our children for several years and taught them things that first time parents such as ourselves might not consider. She gave Oliver a safe haven when at 18 months old, his home was invaded by tiny screaming creatures. She gave my twins other friends when they could so easily have become absorbed in only each other. She gave me a daily break from what felt like a descent into insanity. She gave all of us her years of experience and deep understanding of what children want and need. Cutting the apron strings from this second mother will be hard. For all of us. But mostly for me.

I will always be grateful for the support I had during those first few years. And while I’ll eventually move on and forget the angsty fear of standing on my own two feet (with at least two sets of little hands gripping my ankles), the memory of raising my babies with Gordana won’t fade. I learned a lot about parenting from my babysitter. So in effect, she didn’t just raise my children. She raised me too.

And the Mother of the Year Award Goes to…

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The woman who let her four year old son snarf up a tic tac, then gave him a bloody nose trying to get it out with saline, and now isn’t sure exactly where and in what condition the tic tac is. Hopefully, dissolving quickly.

Yes, that would be me. I’m currently making up for this alien abduction-like procedure by allowing him to eat two bowls of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Here’s to malleable short term memories and the magic of frozen milk and sugar.

First week as a stay at home mom – holla!

Thankfully it’s also the last day of my wine and dessert-free month. I’m off to the beach tomorrow and since my ass can’t get any smaller in 24 hours, I may just cheat and have a glass of red tonight.

Back to blogging hiatus now…

Gone Fishing (or "Screw Friendship and Networking – Tim Gunn is Going to be There?!")

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You may have noticed that I haven’t been commenting much lately (or maybe not – but just in case you have…) Last week was my last week of work. There are a number of reasons why we decided that one of us needed to stay home for a while, but I’m guessing that they’re only really interesting to us, so if you want more detail on that, e-mail me and we can talk.

This week, I’ll be getting used to being home with the kids all day (god help me) and next week, we’ll be at the beach, so I will be taking a break from posting and commenting.

I did set up posts for Wishing True for the next two weeks, so come visit me there! I should also have a post up on DC Metro Moms at some point this week, so I’ll sneak in a quick note about that. And of course I’ll have an oldie but a goodie up for Flashback Friday at the end of the month.

AND – I’m keeping my giveaway open through the end of the month. So if you haven’t entered yet, you can do so HERE.

In the meantime, to all of my friends going to BlogHer:

1. No one will think you look fat – so don’t waste one more tear over that.
2. No one will care what you’re wearing – so just wear what you like best.
3. No one will ignore you if you smile at them or try to talk to them – so smile at everyone and talk to everyone.
4. Tell Tim Gunn I said hi – because I have come very close to slitting my wrists several times since I learned he’d be there and I was going to miss it.

Seriously – I LOVE Tim Gunn. He’s one of my favorite TV personalities (I’d say “people,” but since we’ve never met that would seem a bit familiar – of course if I was actually going to BlogHer…DAMN IT!) So many times have I been running late in the morning and imagined Tim saying, “Kate, you need to leave for work in two minutes and you haven’t even started on hair and makeup. I find this troubling…really, it’s make it work time.”

I’m even sad about missing Carson Kressley. I adored the Fab Five and Carson won me over when gorgeous Kyan was bonding with gorgeous straight guy saying, “really? People say you look like Keanu Reeves? People tell ME I look like Keanu Reeves!” And Carson said, “really? People tell me I look like Ellen DeGeneres.”

Okay – so enough about what I’ll be missing. I really do hope everyone has a wonderful time, and look forward to reading the post mortems.

Here is what I WON’T be missing (from our vacation last year):












See you in a couple of weeks!

Descent into Scary Mommyhood

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One of my favorite online friends, Scary Mommy honored me with an invitation to guest post for her this week. She said that she thought it might be fun to have “a few people post their scary mommy moments (whatever that may mean).” And apparently, I completely missed the point…

She was talking about not being perfect – those times when you feel like “bad mom.” And I went in a totally different direction. Ultimately, she’s posting something else of mine that is more along the lines of what she had in mind. But since I went to the trouble of writing this thing, I’m posting it here.

So pretend that you are over at Scary Mommy’s blog and pretend that I completely nailed her guest post theme. And then leave me comments telling me what a tour de force this is so I can feel a little less moronic about the miscommunication.

Descent into Scary Mommyhood

When Jill asked me to guest post this week, she mentioned something about “scary mommy moments.” And my immediate thought was, “where do I start?!“

I suppose that’s a universal theme of motherhood, with its never-ending firsts, challenges and fears. But along with that comes all of the triumphs, the self discovery and the great gift of testing and proving your merit as a parent. It’s a heady experience.

Being a parent is absolutely the most amazing thing that I’ve ever done. Of course it’s just as terrifying as it is thrilling. And much of the time, it also really sucks.

My initiation into the world of scary mommyhood was the complete upheaval, the world turned on it’s head, the holy crap, what the hell have I gotten myself into slap in the face, otherwise known as bringing your first baby home from the hospital.

The mystery of shell shocked new parent expressions that I had previously puzzled over was suddenly revealed. I now understood. They had just willingly signed away life as they once knew it.

And I think that’s when it starts. Truly, it’s right there at the beginning. Babies may fool you for those first few sleepy days in the hospital…but the minute they cross the threshold of their new home, they turn into mini Terminators on a mission to throw their parents’ once peaceful existence into a state of constant chaos. At least for a little while.

When sleep, something so basic to a functional life, becomes a privilege and not a right, you join the ranks of zombies so easily identified as new parents. And it really gets scary when you realize that you have no idea when the madness will end, if ever.

After one particularly taxing day with baby Oliver, I looked at my husband and said quite definitively, “I don’t know how people take care of multiples – I could never do it.“

Epilogue: 18 months later I gave birth to twins.

Another scary mommy milestone would be caring for those twins during my maternity leave. Oliver was a week late and entered this world as a healthy, nine pound bruiser. Sure, he was fussy – but nothing beyond the expected newborn hoopla.

George and Eleanor were born just shy of 37 weeks and were each under six pounds. After my first tank of a baby, I didn’t know what to make of those skinny little things. They kept their wrinkly knees pulled up in a perpetual fetal position (common with c-section babies). And they looked so fragile, that even my 18 months of first baby experience made me handle them with extra care. Their tiny boniness was so foreign to me that when I dressed them in the morning I would often think that it felt like changing kittens.

They had reflux and colic and eczema and…well, let’s just say that I spent more time at the doctor’s office in those three months than I did in the previous 18 months with Oliver.

And taking care of both of them at once! Feeding them in tandem, bathing one while the other screamed, finally getting one to settle down for a nap, only to have the other wake up…When people knowingly advised me to “sleep when the baby sleeps,” I would reply, “oh yeah? Which one?” (The Miss Manners book got thrown out the window during that period of my life…)

But of course, they too eventually learned to sit up and hold their bottles, and entertain themselves and each other. And the scary new mommy phase quietly lifted away – quite the anticlimax to its bone crushing arrival.

I also think we all experience a touch of amnesia when it comes to those early months since the screaming newborn does at some point morph into a charming, cooing infant. Love and smug admiration for our offspring will inevitably win out in the end.

But then there is always something else… Some new scary development to snap us out of our self satisfied torpor. There is no relaxing in scary mommyhood.

My oldest child just turned four, and within that time I’ve experienced the NICU, the ER, hourly wake up calls for nights on end, speech and developmental delays, biting, fighting, tantrums, teething, crying, screaming and screaming and screaming…

But I’ve also experienced peals of laughter, hand holding, I wuv yous, flashes of genius, spirited identity building, earnest honesty, sticky sweet kisses, general center of the universeness and fervent gratitude for every single day that I have with those little monsters.

They have simplified my life and brought my priorities into sharp focus. My dreams for them are infinite, while my dreams for myself drop off somewhere after “showering with the door closed.” But that’s just for now because they are a daily reminder that anything is possible. They have aged me and made me feel young again. And yes – they scare the crap out of me.

But I wouldn’t have it any other way. From the very beginning, they made it clear that no matter how scary life with them can be, every day is worth it. And every day is ours.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name…

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I’m fairly certain that my neighbors think I’m an abusive parent. Or at least a raving lunatic.

Not the ones I know personally of course. They are aware of the fact that I gave birth to three children in 18 months and cut me a little slack. They’ve also seen me in action and know that I’m all about the empty threats.

Oliver! Do you want to go upstairs and take a nap!?
[Oliver hasn’t taken a nap since February 2008. Even he knows I’m bluffing on this one.]

No, I mean the ones who vaguely know me, but have never had the opportunity to meet me (i.e. the ones who walk purposefully past me and “my brood” George Costanza style, hoping that I will assume that they are very, very busy – no time to be friendly).

They hear me screaming at my children pretty much non-stop whenever we’re outside and I can only hope that they think, “well – at least she’s not beating them.”

George! Get over here! No! That is a NO-NO! Running away from mommy is a NO-NO!
[The No, No. Yes, Yes book doesn’t make quite the impact on my toddlers that one would hope.]

My poor neighbors. Every morning when we leave the house to go to work/daycare, it begins. I really do try to get everyone in the car as quickly and as efficiently as possible. But, inevitably, I have one escapee.

Eleanor! I said it’s time to GET in the car. Do NOT laugh at me, I am SERIOUS. Come over here RIGHT NOW! Do you want a spanking?!
[Eleanor is the only one whom I “spank” since she’s the only one who seems to take this seriously. Said “spanking” generally means a firm pat on her bottom. Which of course sends her into paroxysms of keening tears. She gets the shaming thing. The boys? Not so much – still figuring out what works for them…]

Since everything I yell at them outside begins with their names, it’s safe to say that anyone within a mile radius knows OLIVER! GEORGE! and ELEANOR!

And I’m not always yelling at them. Often I just “call out to them.” The yelling only comes into play when danger is involved. Or total lack of respect for my authority. Or outdoor nudity. Otherwise, I just call their names.

For example, at the grocery store. We can no longer contain them all in carts. That fun car thing on the front of “family” carts? They just climb on top of it while I’m pushing. Half the time, I’d be happy to leave them there since it means they can’t run up and down the aisles. But that kind of arrangement seems to be frowned upon by the other store patrons. And you know – I can’t stand to have complete strangers disapprove of me…

If I really need to keep them immobilized, I might throw all of them inside the cart. That way I can shove them back in when they try to climb out. But then there isn’t much room left for the actual groceries. So that only works for trips to pick up one or two items.

Plus – it is again “frowned upon” to push a shopping cart full of kids in various stages of escape. Something about the possibility of head injuries or whatever…

So nine times out of ten, I’m chasing them around the store trying to keep them in my line of sight while unloading all of the various and sundry items they fling into the cart (this ranges from cookies to boxes of Depends undergarments – they are not always particular about their choices).

I only do the serious shopping when I have Chris with me. It’s still “zone defense” but the ratio of parent to child is a little better.

The grocery store staff and other customers hear my children’s names pretty much from the minute we arrive…

Eleanor! Come back here! You have to stay where I can see you, honey…Listen to me Eleanor, that’s VERY dangerous…

…through the inevitable meltdowns…

I’m sorry George, but you are going to have to stay in the cart…NO George, don’t climb on me. I can’t carry you sweetie, you’re too big. GEORGE! DO NOT hit me! That is a NO-NO!

…to the checkout scramble (why do I NEVER remember to pick the aisle without candy?!)

No candy Oliver. I’m sorry – no. We don’t need that. Put it back Oliver. Give that to me…give it to me….OLIVER! GIVEITTOME!

There is a reason that I’m thinner now than I was before I had kids…

The general theme of all of this yelling at/calling to my children is mainly safety. So I can’t worry too much about what people think. I’d rather look like a complete bitch who yells at her kids than a frantic mother who can’t find them anywhere in the store.

And I guess at the end of the day, people are pretty understanding.

Amused even.

And often very nice.

The other day at Trader Joe’s, I had just caught up with Oliver in front of a sample display of cheese. Before I could even suggest that he stop and try some, the TJ’s staff person stationed there smiled at him and said, “Hi Oliver, can I interest you in some cheese?”

Sigh.

So yes, I think it’s safe to say that wherever we go EVERYBODY knows our names. Not so sure about the “always glad we came” part though…

George’s Hair: Kickin’ It Old School

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So a quick update on George’s hair. You may remember that Chris ruined it a couple of months ago.


It’s growing… But it looks very strange.


I think he looks like an 80s rocker.


Spiky on top. Fringy in the back.


The other day on the commute home, we were listening to an 80s rock block: Paradise City, You Make All My Dreams Come True, and then Some Guys Have All the Luck.

I looked back at George and thought, “that’s it! You are SO on your way to being Rod Stewart.


Some Guys Have All the Luck…

He’s got at ways to go before he achieves Rod’s signature look though… His transitional ‘do is probably closer to what these guys sported in their debut album days:


Of course, this isn’t so bad when you consider some of the alternatives.


On top of his 80s rocker hair, he’s skinny and pale. Remember this shot?


Chris made the rather unkind observation that he looked like a heroin addict with his shaved head, ghastly pallor and general boniness.

Great – so my baby looks like one of those lily-white losers from Trainspotting?


But I must say – the similarity between those two shaved heads is pretty dead on. And George does have this habit of sticking his whole head in the toilet when he flushes (you know – to get the best view).


It’s been a while since I’ve seen the movie, but I’m fairly sure that Ewen didn’t yell, “bye poopies!” in that famous scene. And George’s hair isn’t that short anymore… Oh well, I didn’t say it was an exact likeness.

I’ve Got Disco in My Soul

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You wouldn’t know it to look at me of course.

When people look at me they see this:


and this:


and this:


But when we’re little, we absorb so much. All of that influences who we become – at least to some degree. And regardless of what the outside reflects, on the inside I run 98 ° Disco (Fahrenheit or Celsius depends on the day).

On the inside, I look like this:


and this:


and this:


Because when I was little, I went to Auntie’s house.

Auntie (which is phonetically pronounced “Ahntie”) ran a daycare service in her New Rochelle, NY house. My brother, Matthew and I at age two and four, were just two kids in what felt like a nation of children who stayed with Auntie while their parents worked.

As with all childhood memories, the images I conjure up are BIG: a massive dining room table where we’d all eat our Campbell’s Soup for lunch (hiding Lima beans in our pockets), the long flight of stairs up to her front door, the expanse of plastic slip covered sofa where we were not allowed to play…

The other kids at Auntie’s were mainly from the neighborhood, while Matthew and I lived in another town. They were boisterous and fearless where we were quiet and cautious. But we blended in. Soon enough, we laughed just as loud and played just as hard.

As the only white girl at Auntie’s, I was exotic for the first and only time in my plain jane life. My hair fell flat where theirs could be sculpted into shapes. My nose turned pink after time in the sun. And my hazel eyes would sometimes look green while theirs stayed the deepest of browns.

On the outside I couldn’t be more different. But not on the inside. My new friends marveled over my otherness but only for the novelty. Little girls are far too landlocked by their constant quest for common ground to be distracted for long. All little girls giggle in harmony, speak the language of fairy tales and whisper universal secrets that only fade with puberty.

My brother’s bright chestnut head was the only distinguishing feature in the blur of boys tearing through the house, as boys are even less concerned with external appearance. While the girls initially wanted to stroke my head and pinch my cheeks, the boys barely paused to pull Matthew into their hectic orbit. Pushing him to keep up or get out of the way. There wasn’t time for scrutiny.

But what I remember most about Auntie’s house was the music.

Auntie had teenagers who filled the house with more than just their presence. Arriving home after 3:00, they played their music loudly. Music from 1976 that commanded you to hustle, boogie and shake, shake, shake. Floors and walls pulsed with the sound of drums, bass and horn sections. Every movement of the teenagers kept time with these rhythms and they pulled us all in their wake.

During school hours when the teenagers weren’t there, the little kids would still hustle and boogie. We would sing the songs and choreograph dances. The boys would lose interest quickly, but the girls worked diligently to perfect routines.

I would bring these home and was frequently asked to perform Boogie Fever for visiting friends and relatives. I didn’t like or understand their gales of laughter. There was dignity in my disco.

As memorable as our time at Auntie’s was, it wasn’t very long. Just a year or two. Just long enough for a little disco to grab hold and not let go. And I would carry that always. First as a secret shame in the 80s – then as a triumphant comeback years later.

I rarely listen to the radio anymore. Instead I spend my commute reading via recorded books. There is so little time at home, making this the only way that I can feed my cravings for stories. But the kids are getting older now – no longer babies, but small children who like to dance and giggle as they try to sing along with their favorite songs.

I find that I frequently turn off my stories and listen to theirs (or at least Eleanor’s). Their exclamations over the world whizzing past now require a response. They need me to be actively engaged in their wonder.

So instead I turn on the radio. Now that it’s warm, I put the windows down. I yell at the kids to keep their hands inside, but secretly want to push my own palm against the press of air. I sing along with the songs I know – and even the ones I don’t know. And feel wave after wave of sense memories from high school when driving with the windows down and music blasting was a given.

Then the opening notes of something familiar distract me. I feel very young inside, far younger than I did in my previous reverie. If I close my eyes I can hear the sound of girlish giggling and possibly even feel the ghost of a small hand running through my hair (unless of course, that’s Oliver who just escaped from his seat belt).

But I don’t close my eyes (because you know, I’m driving) and I know that the giggles are coming from my own children who apparently like Donna Summer too. I turn up the volume. On the Radio transports me to a time when I had so few worries and responsibilities (other than covert disposal of the hated Lima beans). And I think that maybe I’ll do this more often, not just for me, but for the three little people in the back seat.

They are absorbing the world around them in the same way I did, and they need more music in their day. Particularly in the car when they have nothing to do but look and listen. They need a rythm to tap with their feet, a melody to lift up their hearts, and possibly a strings section for effect. They need more than Twinkle Twinkle Little Star…they need Donna Summer and Stevie Wonder and Barry White. They need music with impossible high notes and finger snapping backup vocalists. They need a soundtrack. One you can dance to.

Because I think they’ve got a little disco in their souls too.

The Big Reveal: Womily Cuff Links

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I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to post this, but Chris was out of town when they arrived. Then, as you know (if you’ve been reading), it’s been a rough couple of weeks.

But the day has finally arrived – the Womily Touch cuff links are here!

And they are so cool. Chris was thrilled.

If you read the “how to” post, you will remember that due to challenging conditions (i.e. having children), we were unable to get both twins to cooperate at the same time. So only Eleanor’s fingerprints were used for the links.

Here is an action shot (or what a cuff link considers “action”).


Very sharp!

And just because I’m at artist at heart (with limited photography skills), Here are some additional images with an edgy sidewalk chalk backdrop:


The links came with the suede pouch featured above (they are all about presentation at Womily). But did I mention before that engraving is included? We chose “Eleanor Hood, 2 years old.”

Here is a better shot of that:

This was a great investment for us since Chris wears a suit every day and allows himself to be a bit of a dandy when it comes to cuff links and ties. (Next up – a novelty tie featuring a textile pattern of Oliver, George and Eleanor’s faces…what no one is doing this yet? Calling my patent attorney as I type…)
Other Womily product options include necklaces (I want one in gold!), bracelets and charms. So there really is something for everyone.

While I’m here – I may as well throw in a few more visuals of the Hoods.

This is a picture of my daughter with a pig kite.


Seriously – why a pig?

This is a picture of Oliver playing out back with the hose.


Notice how he’s pressed up against the sliding glass door – we were afraid to go outside.

This is a picture of what George likes to call “R2 – time for nap!”


Sleep tight R2.