Tag Archives: Little Ones

The Christmas Tree Nazi

As I write this, I am huddled in my semi-warm winter coat, alternately shivering and rethinking my statement that the original windows in this house are so much more charming than new ones would be. Writing while shivering in a thin winter coat makes me feel like something out of a Dickens novel. Which makes me feel very literary. Or poor.

Either way, I get a warm inner glow every time I glance to my left and see the festive splendor of my own blazing Christmas tree. Yes – the lights are on, and will remain on whenever I am in close proximity to my tree. If need be, I’ll turn off every light and electrical appliance in the house to make up for this gluttonous attack on the earth’s waning resources. I’ll even turn down the already insufficient heat. I love my tree just that much.

As you may have guessed by now, I can decorate the hell out of a Christmas tree. It’s one of my great talents in life, and every year my home is graced by yet another Christmas tree triumph. This is one area in which I throw any sense of humility out the window. I’m can confidently claim that my Christmas tree kicks your Christmas tree’s ass.

You are probably thinking that my family is very lucky to have this kind of genius on their side. Well – I don’t know if they’d agree. You see the price that everyone pays for my mad Christmas tree decorating skillz is that they don’t get to have any fun with it. And that’s my Friday Confession this week. I am a Christmas Tree Nazi.

Brief disclaimer here: I am not in any way supporting or condoning the Nazi movement. My children are not joining the Reichs of Hitler Youth and I am not a racist psychopath with mommy issues. I’m basing the title “Christmas Tree Nazi” on the famous “Soup Nazi” character from Seinfeld. So on the almost impossible chance that you have never heard of this character and had no idea what I’m talking about – please be assured. I am not an actual Nazi.

That out of the way – I am a total bitch when it comes to my Christmas tree. I have definite ideas about where the ornaments should be placed and how the various colors and styles should be distributed. I like a symmetrical tree. A messy looking tree doesn’t bother me if it’s in someone else’s house (it in fact, just reaffirms my own superiority in the tree decorating realm). But the idea of a haphazard looking tree in my own home makes me die a little inside. The only way to achieve the level of perfection that I demand is to be very rigid and controlling, and even strategic about the tree decorating process. And believe me – I’ve got this covered.

I can currently get away with excluding my children based on their ages and lack of attention span. But I know that they will eventually want to participate. I just plan to cross that bridge when I come to it. And possibly buy a “kids’ tree” for them to do with as they like. Their father has fond memories of decorating his own kids’ tree with Star Wars action figures. So I expect he will be supportive my multiple tree plan. In fact, I’m sure he’ll be happy because he’s not currently allowed to help decorate our Christmas tree either. He may as well be one of the kids. The first year we had a tree together, I had to linger behind him rearranging his more bizarre ornament placement choices.

So the Hood family tree decorating tradition does not include the sound of laughter, storytelling and favorite Christmas carrols. There are no childish squeals of delight when someone finds the perfect spot for that favorite ornament (okay – maybe a few, but only if I’m really excited). And there is no closing ceremony of a tiny hand placing our angel at the top.

Instead there is about an hour of lights detail with meticulous care taken to make the tree appear to glow from within. Then there are about 20 minutes of bow placement. And finally, unlimited time is devoted to the actual ornaments.

My ornaments are packed away so carefully that the box would most likely survive a three thousand foot freefall from a cessna flying over rush hour traffic. Since they rarely break, I have finally accumulated enough to transition out the “filler” ornaments (plain gold balls from Michael’s) that I had to use for my first tree. I really do love my delicate antique ornaments and dread the day that they are pushed aside for the kids’ school project ones involving dry pasta or styrofoam.

But I also know that when that day does arrive, I will embrace it with the same pride and enthusiasm I apply to their current toddler achievements. Such as figuring out how to take off their pants and run around outside before I realize they’re gone. Just kidding – I really will be proud of those pre-school ornament projects. And after an appropriate amount of oohing and aahing, I will direct them to the kids’ tree where these masterpieces can be displayed to their best advantage.

Look – I know this sounds really obnoxious. But it IS a confession. So that should earn me at least a few good person points right? Being able to identify the problem and that being half the battle and all… But to give you a sense of where this Christmas tree decorating hubris is coming from (just a sense since no picture can truly do my creations justice), here is a picture I took yesterday:

And here is another one without the flash:

Photographer, I’m not – so like I said, these pictures don’t really capture the magic of this year’s Christmas tree. But they do capture the completely neurotic obsession with perfect symmetry which is at the heart of this psychopathic holiday behavior. And as far as holiday photography goes, capturing the true spirit of the Christmas Tree Nazi is half the battle.

Farewell to the Mullet

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Mullet: A mullet is a hairstyle that is short in the front, top, and sides, but long in the back. The hairstyle was popular from the early 1980s to the early 1990s. Mullets have been worn by males and females. The mullet is distinct from the rattail, which consists of a long, narrow “tail” of hair growing from the back of the head. Mullets also vary in length from side to side and do not necessarily share a single, consistent length.

As I have mentioned on many an occasion, my daughter, Eleanor is follicley challenged. It is only now, at age two, that she has FINALLY started to grow some hair already.

She’s always had very fine blond hair, and I’m sure that if she was my only child, I wouldn’t think anything of it. But she is a twin. And her brother George has had a full head of hair from birth.

Ah – all of that explaining to people that he is not her older brother…”no, she’s not younger – just bald.” Thank god those days are over. As are the days of men seeing me with the twins in the stroller and Oliver at my side, and saying, “three boys – nice work!” (Incidentally – Eleanor was usually wearing pink or leopard print – or something else that no self respecting one year old boy would be caught dead in – but whatever.)

Even as babies – George was able to wear a barrette. Eleanor? Not so much. That one above is literally attached to all three of her hairs. And why would we have a picture that involved George wearing a barrette? I have two words for you: mean grandma.

Unfortunately – this new growth pattern just wasn’t very attractive. Since she always had some hair on the back of her head (I know – cute right?), that pre-existing hair has continued to grow at the same rate as the new hair on top of her head. The result? A bizarre hairstyle alarmingly reminiscent of the mullet.

It’s a bit dark – but truly displays her mullet to best effect.

I’ve never had a mullet or anything resembling one. In general, I’ve had different variations of the same hair style since high school. Albeit, with a few blunders such as perms and fringe bangs thrown in for future blackmail pictures – but never a mullet. No one in my family or Chris’ family has ever had a mullet. And I’ll be damned if my own daughter will be known as the neighborhood toddler with a mullet.

So of course, that means that the day we have been waiting for – for so long (really, really long) – had finally come. Eleanor’s first haircut!

Here are some “before” pictures:

So serious.

I told you it was bizarre.

Then during:

No tears. Pretty impressive considering that her brothers always cry and flail.

The back is now the same length as the sides.

And a blow dry no less! The last time she was in a stylist’s chair with a hair drier over her, she was in my stomach and my water was breaking (ah – memories).

And when it was over:

She got to pick out a barrette. But it was too big for her skinny little hairs. Maybe next year.

A lollipop made up for the barrette disappointment. (For me, I mean. She could have cared less.)

Sorry I don’t have any good “after” shots of the back of her head. She wouldn’t let me take any. Scenes from my future as the mother of a teenage girl: “Mom – stop it! You’re so embarrassing.”

I’m so proud of my mullet-less little girl. She didn’t cry or flail and I didn’t leave covered in toddler hair and snot. Maybe I should bring the boys next time so they can watch her work. My little girl took it like a man (a man WITHOUT a mullet).

Never Underestimate the Power of a Girl

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As I mentioned in the introduction to my last guest post, Tuesday was a bad day. In fact, I even had a rough outline in my head for the post that I wanted to write about it. I also had a title: Working Mom Hell. But one day later – and one day not all that much better – I haven’t the energy or interest to write about how much Tuesday sucked. I already lived through it and I don’t particularly want to revisit it. My account would end up being all wacky and ironic and highlight the quirky traits of my children and paint me as the hilarious straight man… But that’s not how it felt. It felt bad. And not funny. And now I just want to forget it and move on.

And the way I get past the bad is to focus on the good. I am proud of this coping mechanism. It’s one that I worked hard to cultivate, having been prone to martyrish ways in my youth. But my usual “go to,” my kids, wouldn’t work this time. I was still feeling the shame of my bad mommy day, and thoughts of my angels would just lead me back to the same feelings of guilt that I was trying to put to rest.

Instead, I read my Aunt’s story about lying in bed at night and talking to her big sister. And I found myself remembering a time in my life when I was really happy. Carefree and full of hope and unapologetic for flaws that I didn’t yet recognize as faults. I was a senior in high school and for the first time ever, I felt comfortable in my own skin. And I had a great job: I was a big sister to girls. I wasn’t a biological big sister and I wasn’t a volunteer Big Sister – I was just a babysitter.

When I first met Margaret and Julia, I knew that they wouldn’t be like the toddlers and younger kids that I usually took care of. Margaret was ten and didn’t actually require supervision in those hours between the end of school and her mother’s return from work. But Julia was only seven, and Margaret wasn’t quite old enough for the responsibility of monitoring her little sister. I was hired to keep an eye on them, to make sure they did their homework and to put together something resembling dinner (usually fish sticks – not much has changed).

As I said, I had never taken care of kids their age before, and I was immediately struck by two things. First that it was EASY! I didn’t have to chase them around or carry them, and when I asked them to do something, they just did it without any boundary testing or power struggles. The second realization was that I was never bored. Not for a minute. Even when we were sitting around doing nothing, it was like spending time with friends. They liked to hear about my personal dramas and the scandalous gossip of my social circles. And I liked to hear about their younger version of the same.

Kate: “Did I tell you that I found my dress for prom?”

Margaret: “I want to see pictures. I just got a new mini skirt for the birthday party on Saturday.”

Kate: “Are you still going? I thought that you were in a fight with her.”

Margaret: “We made up. Did all of your friends get asked to prom?”

Kate: “Since I only have girls at my school, we don’t have to worry about getting asked to prom. We do the asking.”

Julia: “Look at the picture I drew of you in your prom dress. I gave you a crown and wings.”

Never a dull moment. At least as far as we were concerned. I loved my girls and probably spent half of my earnings on candy at the drug store that was a few blocks away (remember when we went to the “drug store” and not CVS, Rite Aide, etc.?) We would usually walk over and buy chocolate bars and sodas. Diet Coke for me and Coke Classic for them. Or maybe Mountain Dew or Dr. Pepper. They were still experimental about their treats.

I also took each of them out on dates a couple of times. Margaret and I went to see Joe Versus the Volcano and ate huge boxes of movie theater candy before the previews were over. Then Julia and I went to Swensons for ice cream sundaes. Now that I think of it – I was a very bad influence on them with the junk food (again – not much has changed).

Julia was still very much a little girl and would crack me up with her odd little ways and sayings. She loved to have her arms tickled while we watched TV and would say that it made her “all hotted up.” I asked her not to say that anymore – it just didn’t sound right. We were all too young to worry very much about embarrassing each other. Everything was taken in the way it was intended. Intentions were always good.

Margaret came home one day with this t-shirt she had decorated. She used glittery fabric paint to spell out “Never Underestimate the Power of a Girl.” Underneath were two stick figures, one pink and one blue to represent a girl and a boy. And between them was an “equals” sign (girl figure = boy figure). Julia and I agreed that the equals sign looked more like lasers that the stick figures were shooting at each other. Margaret couldn’t decide if she liked that idea better than her original vision.

I have a picture of the three of us. I’m sitting down with Margaret and Julia on either side of me. Margaret is wearing the t-shirt. I love that picture and I always look at that t-shirt: Never Underestimate the Power of a Girl. It reminds me of the girl that I once was – both at their age and at seventeen. I remember so much of my childhood, and how I felt. Maybe that’s why I enjoyed spending time with my young charges so much. I knew how they felt – I had been there.

Margaret and Julia kept me connected to the little girl that was still inside of me. I was leaving for college the next year, but I wasn’t really ready. I would rather have spent another year braiding Julia’s hair and telling Margaret about the parties I went to that weekend. Growing up was never easy for me. And it still isn’t. Being a good big sister is a lot more fun than being a bad mommy.

And I’m sure that when my kids are in college, I’ll look back and remember this whirlwind of IEP meetings, potty training and trying to balance work and family as a far “simpler time” than it seems to be right now. This is a pattern for me – looking back. But just as I learned to be more positive and not dwell on my shortcomings, I’ve also learned to look forward more. And to have a little faith in my ability to do well by myself and the people I love. My intentions are always good. And I never underestimate myself anymore.

They’re Writing Memes of Love But Not for Me

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Anyone that has a blog has heard the term “bloggy love.” And I am absolutely on the list of people who like to talk about the other sites I love. I ask people to guest post, I have a list of blogs on my sidebar (one that I try to keep managable so visitors will actually click on the links), and I’ve even participated in a “virtual dinner party” providing links for some of my favorite bloggers.

But the truth is – I generally don’t like memes and awards. That is my Friday Confession – and it’s a big one for someone with a blog. It’s like telling other mothers in your play group that you really don’t like children that much. I may be banned from Blogger for admitting this – but I just don’t care for memes, awards, and most things that could be labeled bloggy love.

I even find words like “bloggy” annoying. I’ve never been one for the cutesy stuff, and anything that ends in a “y” tends to fall into that category. It kinds of reminds me of high school when all of my friends said “awesome” (a lot) and I just couldn’t. It made me feel like I was trying too hard. And this has come full circle since you may have noticed that most people with blogs use the word awesome ALL THE TIME.

Now I’m not saying that I have opinions about other people who love to participate in memes and hand out awards (or overuse the word awesome – without a hint of irony). It’s just not for me. Probably the biggest reason is that I hate making people feel left out. Of course that’s never the point of these things – but it’s an inevitable byproduct.

When I put together my list for the virtual dinner party I made a point of including parameters that would exclude a lot of the people who might expect to be invited. You were supposed to list 10 blogs and I decided to limit it to blogs that I thought wouldn’t be on anyone else’s list (because they were “blogs that may not be read by the people who are participating in the dinner party planning OR blogs that are still somewhat undiscovered”). I included Anastasia from The Gift, Anna from An Inch of Gray, Kacy from Every Day I Write the Book, Jozette from Regardez Moi, Winona from Daddy Likey, Suzie from Up the Hill Backwards, Amy from Doobleh-Vay, and Heather from Dooce (oh yes I did – but you’ll have to visit the original post for an explanation). Then I couldn’t think of anyone else that would fit my “profile” so I left two spots open for crashers.

I did like the idea of directing my readers to other sites that I really enjoy (there you go: bloggy love), but I could only do it if I knew that I wouldn’t offend anyone. In fact, one of my favorite comments ever was made on that post by Melissa, who said, “I’m having trouble with this, too. I don’t want to make either of my two readers upset if I don’t include them.” Exactly! I don’t want to alienate people who actually take time to read my mediocre attempts at writing. That would just be wrong.

So when I see a meme or an award on another blog and I’m not included in the recipient list, I just breathe a sigh of relief. It’s too much pressure to pick a limited number of “favorites.”

And I’ve had some lovely people honor me with an award. First Renee of But Why Mommy gave me the “Brillante Web Blog – Premio 2008” award (oh yeah – and awards seem to always have very bizarre and slightly foreign names). Then Melissa gave me the Premio Arte y Pico award (seriously – is “premio” a word in ANY language?) Finally, Tiffaney gave me an “Este Blog Investe e acredita na…PROMXIMIDADE.” No idea what this is supposed to mean.

These three women are wonderful people whom I’ve enjoyed getting to know online. I took their acknowdlegement in the spirit in which it was offered. But I haven’t always reciprocated. It’s not that I don’t want to – I just find it very hard to do.

I am a little embarrassed about not posting my awards with a list of other blog friends that I like. But it’s kind of a catch 22. If I just never aknowledge them I feel like my community membership may prematurely expire, and when I do join in the fun, I worry about seeming silly and frivolous (because – you know, I usally write about hard hitting topics such as potty training and giving my children candy for breakfast).

But have you noticed the abundnce of links that I’ve included? This is my compromise. It’s also a cop out. I just won’t pick and choose favorites from the many blogs I love. It’s too difficult and I wouldn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. I think this is better though – since I can include several links without actually listing a “top 10.” It’s the perfect solution for me and my paranoia. And you know what we bloggers like to say when we’ve come up with a geat solution to a problem….awesome.

How Do WE Get Ready for Halloween?

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As a family primarily populated by small children, we’re really just beginning to create holiday traditions. For a long time, it felt like we were the house of babies, then toddlers. And now that everyone is between the ages of two and three, we can actually say “we have three kids.” They are finally all able to understand Halloween – or at least the various decorations and activities that go along with it.

Now we have three very enthusiastic little people in our house who just LOVE PUMPKINS! So number one on the list of what we do to prepare for Halloween? We talk about pumpkins incessantly. The word “pumpkin” must be included in every other sentence – at least. And if we are driving in the car, there must be constant speculation about where the pumpkins are, how many there are and which direction should be taken to find them. Oh – and if there aren’t any to be seen? Get ready for some screaming.

We also make it our first order of business to purchase a hideous plastic light up pumpkin:

My three year old, Oliver felt that this was a “must have” on one of our trips to Harris Teeter – LAST MONTH. At the time, I thought, “what the hell? If an ugly light up pumpkin decoration adds to their Halloween experience, why not?” Why not? Because it’s now the most important feature of the house and must be plugged in at all times. Plugging that stupid pumpkin in is my first priority when we get up and when we come home in the evening. I’m starting to worry about what will happen when Halloween is over and the pumpkin is put away (hidden). How will they function without their tacky idol to worship? Will I have to buy them a plastic light up turkey?

The next Hood Halloween tradition is to buy our costumes early. And demand to wear them ALL THE TIME:

Unfortunately – George tired of his Yoda ears a couple of weeks ago and decided to hijack his brother’s costume:

If I don’t hide the Superman top, George will demand to wear it everywhere: to daycare, to bed, to the mall, in the tub (seriously – we’ve had some BIG fights about that). I’ve written before about George’s tendency to get attached to things. And I think that he would shatter all of the glass in the house with his screams if I dared to take that Superman costume away from him and let Oliver wear it. Luckily Target had more. So we’ll have two Supermen this year. I don’t care – at least Eleanor is happy as a ballerina. And I suppose I should be pleased that George isn’t demanding her costume.

But I think our most festive new Halloween tradition is “decorating the ceiling.” What – you’ve never tried this? Well let me tell you how it’s done!

It all started with one of my great ideas for kid friendly activities. I have these all the time – but they never turn out quite the way I have in mind. This particular gem was inspired by stickers. My kids love to put stickers on paper, but do tend to get frustrated when they can’t peel the stickers off the paper to re-stick them. So what could be more fun than reusable stickers? The answer? Halloween window clings! Have you ever heard of these? They’re like little gel stickers that you can put in your windows. I thought this could keep them busy for a long time while I made dinner, got lunches ready for the next day, changed out of my work clothes… And that it did.

While I put away dishes and Chris was on the computer, Oliver had the genius idea to rip the orange and black gel shapes into tiny pieces. Because shredding things is fun! Then he decided that if the pieces would stick to the window, they would stick just as well to ceiling!

I told Chris that I was running upstairs to change and caught Oliver in the act. He was mid-fling and obviously thrilled with the results of his work. We don’t have particularly high ceilings, but I had to be at least initially impressed by his skill. He had only gotten a few good throws in at that point, so I told him he had to stop, took away the pieces in his hands and called to Chris to make sure that nothing else happened until I came back downstairs. Assuming that my husband was in charge downstairs, I wasn’t in a rush. But apparently I should have been since my directions were not followed.

I came downstairs to find this:

Here is a close-up:

Now, I don’t usually take pictures of my children using their powers for evil. But this was just too outrageous. I needed proof. So before starting in on the husband evisceration, I grabbed my camera. That small detail out of the way, the whoop ass can was opened.

Unfortunately, no one was overly concerned with my rage. Chris thought the whole thing was hilarious and even tossed a few scraps himself. Just another example of men taking inappropriate pleasure in their sons’ misbehavior. It’s all about example setting at our house.

Anyway – the fun ended when we had to pull the pieces down later that evening and realized that they had stained our ceiling. But orange and black is festive for Halloween…and it makes the ceiling look old…like in a haunted house… Oh who am I kidding – it looks like crap. And I’m fairly certain that it won’t be re-painted until next Halloween. Chris is a bit of a project procrastinator. I mean, it takes him a year to make a dentist appointment (sorry honey – but it’s true).

So here it is October 30th, and we’re all ready for the big night! When darkness falls and the festivities begin, we’ll have our plastic pumpkin blazing, our children dressed as Supermen and ballerinas (costume wearers to be determined), and our ceiling stamped with the signs of much mischief. If you think about it, with the exception of costumes, it doesn’t deviate much from everyday life a “the house of kids” – where every day is Trick or Treat.

Happy Halloween!

Why I Hate Halloween

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Hate is a very strong word – especially since it’s only one half of my bipolar feelings for Halloween. So to pre-empt any self righteous indignation on behalf of this annual dress up party, I’ll first state some of the things that I LOVE about Halloween.

I love candy. I love little boys and girls in pirate costumes. I love little boys and girls in princess costumes. [Okay – so the little boys dressed as princesses are just hypothetical since their fathers won’t allow it. But those that settle for being princesses in their hearts will eventually have their day in Key West.] I love chilly nights with glowing, grinning pumpkins. I love the sound of a neighborhood party and the sight of men unafraid to wear tights in public (even some of the aforementioned censorious fathers). I love the idea that for one night you can put on a costume and pretend to be someone else. Because don’t we all entertain the idea of being someone else every once in a while? Even just for a minute?

So with that out of the way… This Friday Confession is that I hate Halloween (at least 50% of the time). Why? Um – because it’s scary. I have mentioned previously that I do not enjoy horror movies. The Ring did not give me thrills and goosebumps. It made me want to throw my TV out the window screaming, “never, never, NEVER do that do me again! How am I supposed to sleep at night now that I’ve seen that?!” I’ll stick with Charlie Brown and the Great Pumpkin thank you very much.

But how can you avoid the truly scary stuff in these October weeks? I live in fear of channel surfing in the evening. You may be clicking through, looking for something entertaining – perhaps a Will & Grace rerun, or maybe one of those Danielle Steele movies on Lifetime – and out of nowhere you are confronted with Linda Blair screaming obscenities and spewing green slime. That is just not something I’d like to see. Especially as a surprise. I don’t particularly like nice surprises, let alone those of the demonic variety.

Another thing I don’t like about Halloween: the undead. The whole premise of this day is that the dead come back to visit, and my very least favorite droppers by are the ones that don’t know how to stay dead. At it’s very core, the idea of the dead coming back to life is decidedly NOT fun. Yet every year, people strap on their fake gore and find each others’ missing heads and terminal wounds delightfully amusing. Exactly when and how did the undead become festive?

But then there is this whole other world of candy corn and superhero costumes. It makes me feel so conflicted… Especially when I find myself talking to people who are entirely against Halloween. One coworker told me that her kids passed out candy, but did not dress up like their friends. The reason being that their grandmother felt very strongly about Halloween and called it the “devil’s day.” My response was that “it’s not if you go as a fairy princess.” But given my own aversions to Satan and the undead, I can see her point.

In the end – I do not ban Halloween, and OF COURSE I encourage my children to dress up and have fun. But there will always be that part of me that says, “wait – why are we doing this again?” No need to give me a history lesson – I know the background. But I kind of think that the Hallmark corporations of the world have made us forget about those very serious superstitions and instead, turned the day into a Disney themed party where both lovely and horrifying creatures coexist with only theoretical bloodshed. My own unreasonable fears and phobias will never allow me to fully buy in though; and I’ll be more likely to avoid the dark basement at night than to gleefully festoon my front lawn with fake corpses. I think I’ll just stay home and pass out candy to three year old ladybugs. And I’ll stick to Netflix movies until November first.

Cat Poo (The Beginning of The Big Piece of Cake: Part III)

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Tuesday was my 100th post. I’m celebrating by not actually writing anything new this week, and instead, re-publishing some posts that I wrote for a friend last Winter. This is the last of three.

My oldest son, Oliver, has been somewhat slow to get with the talking program. While his vocabulary increases steadily, it’s often hard to understand what he’s saying. For example, it took days to identify “ca-pour” as catapillar. Who knows how much of what he says is lost on us.

One word that features prominently in his daily chit chat is “careful.” (Gee, I wonder where that one came from…) Sometimes it’s directed at his siblings and sometimes it’s just a note to self as he tries something that he knows I would discourage. But it took us a while to understand that what he was saying was “careful.” It doesn’t sound like “careful.” It sounds like “cat poo.” Chris and I love this so much that we now say it all the time. As I’m climbing up a window sill to pull down a Christmas wreath: “CAT POO!” As Chris balances on a banister to retrieve a balloon from the ceiling over the stairs: “CAT POO!” We really need to stop, or Oliver is going to think that this is the true pronunciation (and the twins will show up at daycare telling each other to be cat poo).

Every day offers the challenge of deciphering words in the scramble of Oliver’s language. Another current highlight is “get out” (as in get him out of the booster seat, the shopping cart, the fort of pillows under which he is trapped…). This registers phonetically as “gay out.” We have had hours of fun with that one. But one that has really made us stop in our tracks, is the word “frog” (his current favorite animal). When Oliver yells “FROG,” it sounds a little more like “FOG,” which when pronounced with a particularly hard “G” is unnervingly similar to something else….

Out of Context (The Beginning of The Big Piece of Cake: Part II)

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Tuesday was my 100th post. I’m celebrating by not actually writing anything new this week, and instead, re-publishing some posts that I wrote for a friend last Winter. This is the second of three.

Recently another twin mom I know mentioned that she saw me out shopping and tried to wave, but realized that I didn’t recognize her. She kindly suggested that she was out of context since we really only see each other at playgroups, and we didn’t have our kids with us. Then she laughingly said, “and I generally feel out of context when I’m not with my kids.” She is wonderful and I hate to use her comment as a negative example; but the truth is I never want to feel out of context without my children.

It would be so easy to just drift into the ongoing whirlpool of need that they generate. I could lose myself in that quite happily given the rewarding existence of being loved more than anyone by children who are for me, the bright, shining center of the universe. But then I remind myself that Eleanor won’t feel out of context without me when she starts high school, and then college, and then goes to Cancún for Spring Break, and then gets a beach house for the summer with her friends. I can’t lose myself in my children now, because I’ll be needing that identity back when they leave me to find theirs.

I’ve increasingly found that a major element of my motherhood experience is being both a mom and just me at the same time. “Just me,” being the side of me that watches me deal with melt downs and tantrums and dance with the Wiggles and walk out of the house wearing unflattering clothes because I’m in a hurry and I’m just going to the Safeway and I don’t have time to indulge in a wardrobe crisis. It’s the objective side of me that does the laughing and the storytelling and remembers to notice every detail of George’s 14-month-old smile because his face will have changed again by the time he turns two. The mother in me focuses on what needs to be done and really lives in the moment. I need her to take care of my children, but I also need that observer in me to appreciate them. And if I need to have “just me” to laugh about their daily antics now, I’m going to need that same part of myself to help let them go when they inevitably start to grow up.

Full Hands (The Beginning of The Big Piece of Cake: Part I)

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Today is my 100th post. Considering the fact that I started this blog in late June, that seems to have crept up on me rather quickly… What can I say, I’m an enthusiastic poster. To celebrate this milestone, I decided to devote the next few days to the first posts I ever wrote.

They were written last Winter when The Big Piece of Cake didn’t exist, and my neighborhood friend Tricia, ask me to contribute some guest posts as a mother of twins to her blog, Reston Mom. I enjoyed this so much that after several months spent mustering up the courage, I decided to start my own blog.

This is the first of the three pieces I wrote for Tricia (this first one was broken in to three parts for Reston Mom, so it’s longer than the next two):

Full Hands

Recently, Tricia asked me if I’d be interested in contributing to her blog with some reflections on being the mother of twins plus a first child that was only 18 months old when they were born. This is a question that I get all the time: “So you must really have your hands full – how do you manage?” The answer to this would be that I have no idea. People say, “I just don’t know how you do it,” and I think, “me neither.” As my husband, Chris likes to say, we’re just trying to survive and our only real job right now is to keep the three of them alive.

Now that we’re out of the marathon phase of three-hour feeding schedules for infant twins (including three to four wake up calls each night), I think we can get past survival mode. Newer priorities include herding, refereeing, and keeping anything weapon-like out of reach. They’re not violent children – just very physical. The oldest probably sets the tone by initiating games that tend to involve knocking each other down on the floor and seeing who can hold the others down the longest (and as a 40 lb. two year old that looks like a 4 year old, he has a gross advantage over the other two pee wees combined). Honestly, after about six months of feeling like I ruined Oliver’s life by bringing home not one, but TWO unwanted siblings, I’m just glad that they all seem to like each other.

I just never considered that I might end up with twins. I knew twins and I babysat for twins. I listened to my friends muse that it would be so nice to just have twins the first time around and then be done with pregnancy. But I never had those daydreams myself. I always knew that this would be too much chaos for my orderly existence. When Oliver was born, I couldn’t believe how exhausting and all consuming he was; and I have a very clear memory of saying to Chris, “I don’t know how people have multiples – I just couldn’t do it.” But here we are, and somehow we’re all alive, and I find that I don’t need to have everything in order anymore.

It’s impossible to predict what a weekend day at home with the kids will bring: how many battles of will I can expect, what moods I will encounter when I enter their bedrooms in the morning, who will have a runny nose, or when they will actually start the day (it could be anywhere from 5:00 to 7:30 a.m.). What I do know is that I will have a pile of laundry that will never be completely folded until everyone goes to bed, that I will never get around to that vacuuming that needs to be done and that I will very possibly not even leave the house or put on shoes. But I also know that I will witness a developmental leap in speech or motor skills, I’ll receive innumerable hugs and kisses, both requested and offered, and I will discover yet another amazing skill that I didn’t know I possessed, such as fixing matchbox cars or leaping over hurdles Bionic Woman-style to reach a 2 year old attempting to push his little brother down the stairs (all in good fun of course).

The truth is – everything about my twins was unplanned. I’m one of those controlling types that prefer to keep things logical and organized. I knew for a fact that I wanted a three to four year age difference between my (two) children so that I could get the first one out of diapers, into pre-school and engaged in some kind of intelligible communication before embarking on another round of sleepless nights with a second newborn. Well that didn’t work out. Instead, we ended up with three babies under the age of two, all in diapers, in daycare, and nowhere near the ability to communicate clearly with words.

Life was simple with just one baby. There was always one answer for everything: whatever is best for him. If there was an earthquake and a giant crack opened up in the ground, I could pick him up and run in the other direction. Now I’d need to get the stroller, strap in both twins securely and then convince Oliver to actually hold on to me while I carry him and push the stroller with my free hand. At this point, we’ve all been consumed by the giant crack; and trying to climb out with all three of them is beyond even my disaster planning skills.

I spend less time making future plans now (and forget disaster planning, I can’t even watch movies like War of the Worlds). Instead I focus on the next few weeks, days, hours. I’ve found that no one is on board with my preference for sticking to a plan (not even my husband), so I’ve given up. I just do the best I can to keep things organized and try to be ready for anything. But then – isn’t that the case for all families?

Kate & Oliver’s Baby Soothing Service: We Make House Calls

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The other night, my three year old son, Oliver accompanied me to our neighbors’ house to help soothe their baby. Actually, I was being consulted for my medical skills (if you call squirting saline solution up an infant’s nose and then finishing the job with a plastic syringe “skillful”). As a mother of three small children, I tend to command a great deal of respect in the knowledgeable mommy department. Which makes me feel very important – when I stop laughing.

I may not be the best choice for Rich and Cathy’s parenting guru, BUT I’m the fastest aspirator sucker in the West (or East since I live in Virginia). Oliver had a stuffy nose from the day he was born until his first birthday. And then six months later I gave birth to the twins who had their fair share of snot – though nothing to match Oliver’s prolific booger production. Bottom line: I may have to call the nurse hotline to get advice on constipation or vomiting – but I know exactly to do about a newborn with a stuffy nose.

Ironically enough, they really did think that Jack (the adorable two month old baby) might have a more serious problem. And when Rich knocked on our door to ask me to come over because Jack was having trouble breathing, I was expecting to find a baby gasping for air – and possibly turning blue, since I have a rather overactive imagination about this kind of thing. Instead I found a placid baby staring up at worried adults and comically snorting out breaths.

The reason that I brought Oliver with me is that I had been at BlogHer DC all day and since it was a holiday, the kids were at home and noticed my absence. I couldn’t leave the room without hearing a panicked Oliver calling for me. Somehow leaving the house didn’t seem like it would bode well for a peaceful bedtime. It was decided that he would have to accompany me on my house call.

It was about 8:45 p.m. when we arrived – just about the time that I usually start trying to convince Oliver that it really is time to put on pajamas and not just some crazy idea I dreamed up. Although he can’t read the clock, he can sense an approaching bedtime like a tracker hearing hoof beats from a mile away. (Does that metaphor work? Not sure…a little awkward…but I’m keeping it.) This is when he generally starts his redirection routine: “Hey look! It’s Curious George!” or “Sammach [sandwich] PLEASE” or “Uh Oh! Pee pee!”). So you can imagine how thrilled he was with our impromptu excursion.

He was equally enchanted with “baby Jack” and did a lot of pointing and Cousin It-like babbling (Oliver’s version of talking) about him. And he happily watched as I examined my patient. Diagnosis? A lot of snot plugging up Jack’s nose. Prognosis? A very uncomfortable and sleepless night for everyone that lived with him. But a little saline and aspirator action would help.

Because I’m all about sharing my gift. I held the baby and made Cathy do the work as I guided her through the complicated process. Step one: have someone restrain flailing baby as you insert the saline bottle in the nostrils. Step two: hold the bottle over each nostril for approximately three seconds. Step three: wait a few more seconds for the saline to do its work. Step four: continue to hold baby’s arms – now that he’s most likely gaining Incredible Hulk strength and can beat you senseless with his fists – and use the aspirator to remove “the obstruction.” Note to new parents – saline for babies will drip, so you don’t have to squeeze the bottle. I made this mistake for an entire week of Oliver’s life until I finally realized that I was powerwashing his brain with saline.

It was only after we finished the procedure and started trying to soothe a hysterical Jack, that I noticed Oliver’s agitation. He was horrified by what we did to that poor sweet baby and hovered around us as if he was trying to figure out how to snatch Jack and make a break for the front door. And when I imagined the scene through his eyes, I had to admit that it probably looked like something that would happen in an alien abduction. It was definitely time to go home and watch some Barney.

So we said our goodbyes to the happy little family (translation: shell shocked parents and wailing infant) and made our way back. As soon as I closed our door though, I knew that it wasn’t going to work. Oliver just stood there, lips quivering and tears streaming, asking for baby Jack. What could I do? I took him back.

I didn’t even bother knocking since barely five minutes had passed, and sure enough, we found them just as we left them – trying to calm Jack down. Oliver gave me a “do something!” look – so I took Jack and did another one of my baby voodoo tricks on him.

When George was a newborn, he had bad reflux and upon the suggestion of another twin mom, I purchased the Itsy Bitsy Yoga Book. Apparently yoga poses help with reflux. Since George couldn’t exactly lower himself into a downward dog position, I had to read the book and do the little exercises with him. The only really useful piece of information that I took away from that chapter of my maternity leave was that if you hold a baby out in front of you with their head in your hands and their feet at your chest, and then quickly squat down and slowly rise up over and over again – the baby will be instantly soothed. It’s absolute magic.

While it did look ridiculous, my squatting routine did the trick after just a few drops. I continued while I spoke with the exhausted parents and watched out of the corner of my eye as Oliver relaxed. Since it seemed as if my work was done, I returned Jack to his mother and hustled Oliver out before the crying could begin again. No such luck. The wailing started as we were walking out the door.

This time we didn’t even make it into our house, Oliver charged back without me. I told Chris that we were returning and asked him to come with us. I don’t even know if Cathy and Rich were surprised to see us. All I could say was, “yeah…we’re back.” I returned to my squatting routine, Oliver found Wonder Pets on the TV and Chris opened a beer. We certainly do know how to make ourselves at home.

One problem with the Itsy Bisty Yoga soothing magic is that it’s impossible to sustain for long periods of time. This is the exact reason why people hate going to the gym. It’s hard. Unfortunately – Jack was a grumpy boy, and the minute I would stop, we would start crying. Since Oliver refused to leave Jack in his time of need, I was starting to wonder if we’d ever get out of there.

My solution was for Rich and Jack to escort us back to our house. This ALWAYS works when Oliver doesn’t want to come inside after playing with a neighbor’s dog. Now instead of fighting with him, I just ask the owner to come back to our house for a few minutes (maybe I should write a book – I’m just full of great advice!) So we applied the same principles to the crying baby. Have I mentioned that I live in a townhouse? This story sounds a lot less bizarre if you know that we’re only walking about 20 feet door to door.

Jack continued to be fussy at our house, and Oliver wouldn’t go upstairs with me. I couldn’t do one more squat if I tried. As it was, I was worried about being able to walk the next day. Chris said he’d give it a shot. Apparently – he is the secret weapon of our baby soothing service. He just held Jack close and rocked him while making shushing sounds. Within minutes, the baby was asleep. I was a bit suspicious and thought Chris may have learned that Ninja trick of pinching the side of someone’s neck to make them pass out… Either way – he seems to have a gift. Why he wasn’t using it on the twins when they were newborns and woke up every 20 minutes at night? I’m not sure. But it certainly did work on Jack.

It’s too bad that we don’t plan to have anymore babies, because DAMN – we’re good! But we really don’t plan to have anymore babies. I can barely control the ones that I do have. Who knows? Maybe Oliver absorbed everything he learned that night and will become The Baby Whisperer for his generation. Or more likely he’ll just cultivate an unusual fear of nasal spray and develop the disconcerting habit of entering his neighbors’ houses without knocking.