Little Women

     Maybe I missed something somewhere along the way, but when did it become okay for kids to be so downright rude and disrespectful to their parents and other adults?  It seems like every time I go into a store I will see at least one example of this new Parent=Pal trend that seems so fashionable right now.

    Little kids, cute as buttons, calling their parents "Stupid" or responding to questions with "Duh" and "Whatever". One mother was discouraging her daughter's choice in shirts in what seemed like a reasonable manner, only to have the pre-teen answer back with, "Please. Like you know anything." Another time, a little boy was playing a video game in a waiting room. The mother asked him to please turn the video game's volume down. The little boy looked at her and said, "Be quiet. Can't you see I'm working here?"

  When did that become okay?

  I know many times, the parent is equally to blame, modeling the snarky attitude prominently at home. Children are mirrors that reflect some of our most blaring faults.

 Sometimes it's the older siblings who teach the bad habits. And of course every Little wants to be just exactly like the Big in their life.

  We can also point the long finger of blame at schools, and media, and video games, television.

  But I wonder if it really helps to blame anyone or put the burden of fault on anything. Can't we just agree that it's wrong. Is it erroneous to assume that disrespectful children run the very high risk of becoming a very dangerous thing: disrespectful and possibly un-empathetic adults?

  I am the first to admit that my parenting style has flaws. I'm not perfect. But I will absolutely say that I speak to my daughters with respect and expect them to speak respectfully back to me. I expect them to. As in, I have expectations for them. In my opinion, encouraging children to reach expectations is a learning experience. Teaching. (As many of you know, I like teaching). When they hear a new phrase or learn a new behavior and want to try it out on me at home, we will discuss it if it doesn't meet our Expectations. There was a time, not so long ago, when it seemed every request I made of them was answered with a slightly sassy, "Oh, I Don't Think So"...complete with the eye rolling.  I could have let that slide. Sure. But if it bothers me to have that said when they are 8, I really don't want to hear it when they're teenagers,  full of raging hormones and battling every single thing I say. How tiring would that be? So we sat down and talked about it. How it made me feel. How it made them feel. What it meant. We talked about our Family Pact to keep our words respectful towards one another, and considered if that phrase fit into that plan; we decided that it really didn't mesh too well. And you know what? That was the end of it. Case closed. There was no yelling. No aggressive behaviors or stomping of feet. It wasn't needed.

   I consider it my daughters' job to "push the buttons"; that's how they grow and learn. The trial and error is how they become the unique individuals they are destined to be one day. My job, as a parent, is to give them the opportunities to thrive and learn from their mistakes, and to help them find their own voice in whether something fits in with our Family Expectations or not. It's also my job to model the behavior I expect from them to them. They are with me every day, seeing my own trials and triumphs on a daily basis. I'd like to hope my actions cast a glowing reflection. Like I said, I'm not perfect by any means, so it's as much an on-going lesson for me as it is for them.

   Maybe this seeming trend in kids being disrespectful will fade away. There is always that hope, after all. But in the mean time, I am aspiring to rear two respectful daughters who will be (I hope) tomorrow's respectful and empathetic women. It may seem that the  morals and ethics of the world are spiraling out of control, but what I can do is be watchful of my own actions and attitudes, knowing that the two blessings entrusted to me are present, ever watchful, and (hopefully) picking up on them.

Searching For Harry Potter...

We're raising Harry Potter Fans at our house.

Yep, we sure are.

When the girls turned 5, we upgraded our bedtime stories to chapter reading out of books we decided they should hear. Harry Potter was at the top of the list because we were excited for them to hear the story. (And really, isn't that what makes being a parent so gosh darn awesome? You get to decide what books your kids will have to sit and listen to. Also, I can read in an awe-inspiring English accent, making it completely enthralling to listen to, I'm sure. But mostly, they listen because we've told them they'll like it.)

Our initial plan was to not allow the girls to see any of the movies if we hadn't yet read the book to them. We were pretty successful with that goal in the beginning; however, interest waned, and time flitted discreetly away.

Consequently, here looms the last installment of the series, ready to release in a little over a week, and we've only gotten through book 2, The Chamber of Secrets. So we've begun a Harry Potter Marathon at our house, gearing the girls up for our last opportunity to take them to the theater to see a Potter film released.

Here's what they've told me so far:
1. Harry was "cutest" in the first one. (I suspect that is because he appeared closer to their age)

2. No matter what the wizarding world can do, cars should most definitely not fly. Ever. End of story. (Clearly they've not seen Back To The Future II).

3. It would be okay to have a pet owl. "Can we have one, mom?" Nope. (End of story).

4. Spiders should not ever, ever, ever grow that big. "No, mom, they really shouldn't." I agree. Completely.

We're cruising our way through each DVD, the girls experiencing them for the first time, while Dan and I reminisce about where we were and what was going on in our lives as each was released. It's a family affair here.

.....and I still hate the spiders in Chamber of Secrets. Hate them.

This Anniversary

Thirteen years ago today I became Mrs. Dickinson. I stood before a pastor and vowed that I would cleave to this man, my friend, until death us do part. I meant every word I said.

I still do.

I know it's cliche to say it, but the truth is I am amazed we're at 13 years. Where did it all go? We've had our ups, our downs, goods and bads; life has a way of wriggling into the cracks in the fortress you thought you built so well, doesn't it? What I love about our marriage is that the bad times and struggles drive us closer together rather than further apart. He is honestly my best friend; of course I need to lean on him when the going gets rough, and I consider it an honor that he feels the same for me.

We understand each other.

Of our 13 anniversaries thus far, we've had an eclectic variety of celebrations. We planned get aways for a few of them, but that was before kids, when there was extra money to be found in the budget to allow that. Since the girls have completed our family, we've included them on our day, making them a part of the celebration of it. We choose a fancy restaurant and all get dolled up for it. They know to be on their very best-of-the-bestest behavior, and off we go. Maybe it's not the uber romantic anniversaries of the past, but there is something sweet about celebrating a marriage that has created 2 precious people with those 2 people.

There was the year we moved on our anniversary. That just plain sucked, I must honestly say. I don't remember how it worked out that we planned such an undertaking on that special day, but it did. Never again. Ever.

This year we're in the midst of a crisis with one of our before-children cats, Zoe. She was diagnosed with diabetes last week and has been struggling since then. This is the topic of a whole other entry, Say It Ain't So, Zo. We've watched her continue to ebb and flow with the disease, desperately trying to figure out what treatment we could honestly afford. After much research, our decision today...TODAY...has been to put her down. Of course, it's Sunday and our vet is closed, and naturally tomorrow is the 4th Of July....leaving Tuesday as the Date.

I hate this choice, which was really not much of a choice to make at all, really. But she's not herself. She's weak, struggling to even get up the stairs. She's stuck down the basement all day and in the bathroom at night, unable to roam freely with her sister-cats because of accidents she's having. Looking in her eyes is like looking at someone who has fought a long hard battle and is ready to let go, but can't. She's so tired. So deeply, deeply, inhumanely tired.

And so it came to pass that I've spent the better part of our anniversary sobbing over the weakened form of our previously vigorous cat, (when, by the way, I had formerly decided NOT to shed any more tears over this), agonizing over a decision which feels more like some murderous plot, and feeling completely wracked with guilt over the whole entire thing.

Well, happy anniversary to us.

It's one of those times to cleave; and so I do. Dan is my friend, my comfort, my support, my encourager. He's standing beside me, attempting to calm his slightly neurotic wife, assuring me that this will be the best choice for our cat, and that we can get through it together.

Just like we always have.

Together.

As in, not alone.

I like that.

A lot.

Today is a day to celebrate that. Our togetherness in the good times and in the bad; to draw close when the choices are plenty and easy, and when they are few and hard.

Together.

In that sense, it is a Happy Anniversary after all.

Bike Riding Ruminations

"It's like riding a bike"...

How many times do you hear that expression? I can think of so many things that have that adage attached at the tail end.

Haven't knitted in awhile and you're afraid you've forgotten how? Why, it's like riding a bike! You'll remember in no time.

What's that you say? You've been wearing slip on shoes for so long that you think you've forgotten how to tie your sneaker laces? Pe-shaw! It's like riding a bike! Tie away, laddy, tie away.

But have you ever stopped to wonder what happens for the people who can't ride a bike? Hmmmm? Where's the hope for those poor souls, I ask you? Will they remember the old knit-purl combo, or will they just go scarf-less? Will they need to watch an instructional video reminding them about the little bunny jumping through the hole, or are they destined to shuffle around with forever untied shoes laces?

Needless to say, our own summer project, aptly named, "Get Those Girls Riding Their Bikes Because It's Just About Time, Don't You Think?", has not been going quite so well.

Rest assured, we've made some progresses; small, incremental steps that have taken us away from the horrifying side wipe outs that were so definitive of our first attempts with them. But such success have been few and far between.

And we've tried....everything. Oh, how we've tried.

First we took off their training wheels when we realized that they weren't so much helping the girls learn to balance as they were causing a constant safety hazard on their bikes, which are 20 inch bikes that just do not work well with training wheels. Off they went. And any hope we had that our offspring would miraculously summon their sense of inner balance crashed to the pavement right along with them.

Next we tried putting towels around their bellies and under their arms, holding them together at their backs as we ran along beside them. This step gave us the most progress, I must say, but after awhile, each girl was just sort of wobbling along, waiting for her "Towel Holding Parent" to yank her back up just before she fell over completely. We became a handy crutch, you might say. And have you any idea just how heavy it gets to hold your peddling child up by a towel as she speeds along the sidewalk while you clamor beside her, often times pushed awkwardly into the grass, desperately trying to keep your own footing, because you are fully aware that if you go down, she goes down. And whose fault would that be? Hmm? (My arms have gained a certain She-Ra-ish build to them though).

We are now at the stage we call: "Off You Go, My Child". The girls know it better as: "Pedal Or Fall". We take them out into a big field, get them situated on their bikes, give 'em a push, bid them farewell, and let them go. See ya, sweeties! (Pedal or fall now, you hear?) And it's true: she who pedals, stays aloft on that crazy two wheeled contraption; meanwhile, she who tries to coast along on gravity's good graces tends to fall.

Caedance is making great strides with this particular method, saving her great crashing skills for when she doesn't like the direction she's going in, or determines she's going to fast. When it doubt, fling yourself from your still moving bike, folks.

Ashlyn continues to stubbornly refuse this particular mode of transportation. I'm not sure she honestly sees the point in it. Why pedal anywhere, really, when you can run, or skip, or gallop? Pedaling is for suckers! She tends to spend her quality practice time demonstrating her own savvy techniques for ditching her bike. She's perfected the roll over fall, whereby she tosses herself off the bike while still holding onto it, thus encouraging it fall on her as she rolls. After The Event, she lays very still, muttering to herself, "Well, well, well, well." We continue to teach to her the value and virtue of utilizing her bike's brakes.

We continue to work towards our ultimate goal of having honest to goodness Bike Riding Kids, but most days it feels like an uphill battle with them. Along the way, we've heard interesting input from a variety of parenting resources, most of which serves only to make us truly suspect that our children may in fact be the last nearly 7 year old non-bikers on the face of this planet. Uh-huh. True-sies.

I've politely nodded at the parent who insisted her balancing genius knew how to ride the bike the moment he sat up on it. (Well, bully for you, lady. My kids don't.)

I've smiled at the mom who regaled us with the tale of the 3 nights it took her daughter to have 2 wheeled success. (So what if we're going on a year of training drudgery?)

And tonight I watched, incredulous, as a 4 year old neighbor sped by us on his two wheeled steed, stopping in front of us to off load himself from Old Blue and take his ipod buds out of his ears, giving us a chin nod as we went by. (Alrighty then).

Honestly, do my kids really have to ride a bike? Isn't it enough that they can both swing now? Can't we just call that this summer's grand accomplishment? What do you say?

Oh, I know. We'll keep trucking away at it. Don't worry. They'll get there. And if you happen upon our neighborhood one night and maybe see two little sprites with rabbit ears on their helmets making grand crashes in the grassy knolls and laughing with glee while they're parents look on with dejected, furrowed brows; well, you'll know that's us.

And remember, no matter how off balance and wobbly they may look today, they were probably much worse yesterday. And just think of where they might be tomorrow.

Parenting 101: Though They Be Cute, They Be Wild

Picture this, if you will. It's been what feels like the 40th rainy day in a row. You're thinking about possibly building an ark, or at the very least renting a pontoon boat. Your children, desperate from lack of sunshine, have fallen into a mode of behavior that has only two sounds: 'Whine' and 'Oh dear Lord, How Could They Actually Have Gotten Even Whinier?' At any given time you know exactly where they are located based upon the primordial sounds of anger, disgust, and inactivity being emitted in their vicinity.

At some point you realize that your ears may explode if they are forced to transept one more derivative of "Wahhh", so you send them away. Upstairs. Somewhere else. Proximity to you is not a good thing at this moment; away is better. Safer.

They trot off, trailing the sluggish sounds of Whine behind them, and you plunk down on the couch: exhausted and ready to read and have a few minutes of peace. As you mindlessly flip pages of a book you're only barely paying attention to, you keep track of their activities through a series of audible thumps, squeals, and yelps that are floating down the stairs.

Content that they're not assembling any ammunition or making dung bombs, you turn your attention fully to the book. You tune them out.

(Can you spot your mistake in those last 2 sentences?)

Immersed in the world of make-believe your book has blessedly whisked you off to, you only presently realize that there is an odd sound filling the room. Pricking your ears up, you realize what the sound is and why it distresses you so much. It's silence.

Moving slowly, you put the book down and begin the trek upstairs, listening as you go; waiting for some indication that you were mearly hearing a lull in their conversation, and hoping that they're really behaving. Perhaps, you silently hope to yourself, they're just sitting quietly with their hands in their laps, waiting to apologize for the week's worth of frustration they've inflicted upon you.

(Because you can always keep that dream alive, my friend. Always.)

Entering their room you find that your hopeful dream was miles and miles away from the truth of what was happening. Sitting in the middle of the room are your two cherubs. For the first time in a week, they are playing with gusto, it's true. Unfortunately, they're playing with the mounds of newly headless (and some legless) Barbie dolls, and few headless My Little Ponies that they've apparently just created.

You see, there is a lesson to be learned here. There is. Sure, you were exhausted and worn out by days of whining and fighting. And certainly you were ready for a quiet moment to yourself. And the truth is, you did everything right by keeping an ear towards their non-visual play, listening for any sounds that might suggest naughtiness.

(But really, what sounds would be suggest the beheading of dolls?)

However, the harsh reality is, my friend, that you were suckered in. It's true. You made the error of taking those acceptable noises and assuming they were up to an equally acceptable past time. You were lulled into complacency by a false sense of clueless guise. I've seen it happen so many times before; you forgot the first mantra of parenting multiples: Though They Be Cute, They Be Wild.

No you can't really trust them. Even though they're past the age of sticking things in outlets and pulling dressers over on themselves, they still aren't fully trustworthy! Don't be so naive, man. So what that they're almost 7; let us not forget that there are 2 of them, and according to Mandy's Law, whenever 2 or more gather, mischief can and will be made.

So now you have to deal with those poor headless/legless creatures. All of them. One by one. You have no real way of knowing if you get the heads sorted out and reattached to the correct body, but you give it your best shot anyway.

In the end, you take away the much anticipated TV time, explaining to them that poor
Barbie & My Little Ponies can no longer watch either (since they've been decapitated), and isn't that quite sad indeed? And you explain in firm terms that under no circumstance will this ever happen again. But somewhere, deep in side, you know it will. Somehow. You'll let your guard down one day; you can't be everywhere at once, after all. You're good, but not that good.

And in the end, this much is ever true: Though They Be Cute, They Be Wild. Beware.

I'm Watching.

In the annuls of Adventures In Twin Parenting, perhaps the most difficult task we've been faced with thus far has been this: teaching them to ride a bike.

I know what you're thinking. You don't have to say it. (But since I know you're still thinking it, I'll say it for you. "You think that's hard? Just wait until they're driving, or dating, or going to school"..etc, etc.) Please note I said, "Thus Far". Consider if you will, that includes pregnancy, twinfancy, and all toddler hood endeavors. THIS takes the cake.

The problem we've always faced is that neither of the girls cares one bit for getting from point A to B on anything other than the 2 feet God gave 'em. They'd rather walk, run, skip, or trot, and have always put their noses up at any other mode of personal transportation. In infancy, they disliked their swing. In toddler hood, they outgrew all their ride-alongs long before they actually "rode along" to anything. In preschool years, they avoided the Cozy Coup, then put the cabash on the tricycles.

We keep running into the same problem: their disinterest in riding bikes has always meant that they outgrow whatever device we have for them before they ever learn to ride it. We are currently on bike number 3 for them. Bike 1 was a 12 inch, then we upgraded to a 16 inch, and are now at a 21 inch.

And herein is our particular quandary: what do you do when your daughters' legs are too long for a bike that is more age (and ability-level) appropriate for her, neccesitating a larger bike clearly meant for kids who already know how to ride a bike?

Training wheels aren't meant for this size bike. At all. So we're attempting to teach turning skills (tricky for kids who've never cared about steering wheels) and balance to two very disinterested little ladies.

We're methodically plodding away, despite their moans of disapproval. "Again? I have to get on it again?" In short? Yes. You do. Let's go.

We each take a child. The helmet-clad lass is than lassoed with a large beach towel around her chest, which effectively holds her up on the bike. She pedals while her assigned parent attempts to walk beside the bike, holding tight to the towel as they travel.

It's not small feat either, let me tell you. There is no balance here. None. That Caedance stays up is more thanks to my holding fast to that towel than to her own inner equilibrium. Right now, anyways. Every once in awhile, we'll hit a stretch of maybe 8 feet where she'll get it. But in a blink it's gone, and I'm left tug-tug-tugging away on the towel again; hand cramping, lower leg scraped up from being bumped by the pedal, and just mostly praying my hand doesn't spontaneously open and drop the towel all together. How much would she like riding the bike then, I ask you?

But as I said, we're plugging away at it. Last night we took a quick run around the block. As has become custom, I was Caedance's Bike Runner/Towel Holding Coach. She had a few good runs where she had gotten her balance and was progressing at more or less a normal rate. I was proud of her.

Head straight forward, she said, "Look mom! Look at me!"

I wanted to say something like, "Look at you? Hon, I'm holding you up. I'm right here. I see you because I'm actually here with you. Right now. No need to ask me to look."

But I didn't.

I realized that she didn't want her Bike Runner Coach to see what she was doing; she wanted her Mommy to watch. Mom. Look at me. See me. See what I'm doing.

And I saw. Eyes wide open, I saw my little girl who's struggling to succeed at this activity that she couldn't care less about. But she trying. Not because she wants to, but because she sees it's important to her dad and to me. She sees that and so she's giving it her all. Right here. As I run beside her.

"Mom, look at me! Watch me!"

"I see you, heart. You're perfect."

In everything they do: I see.

I see you, my precious daughters. Your accomplishments do not go unnoticed by me. Ever.

I see you. Always.
And I'm so proud.

Sleeping Beauties.

If given the choice, my daughters will sleep.

We're currently smack in the middle of our first true Spring Break, and every day this week, they've slept until around 10:00am. Every day. Ah, yes; I can smell the jealousy now.

Truth be told, if you had told me our twins would inherit what I consider to be the best trait Dan and I hold, I wouldn't have believed you. At all. In fact, I had pretty much figured "Adequate Sleep" was going to be filed under the "Life Before Children" section of my life.

I felt the first stirrings of the lives within me around the 14th week of pregnancy. Each week brought a new sense of wonder as those first subtle flutterings morphed into stronger kicks, then more forceful (and at times curiously malicious feeling) stabs.  As the months passed, and my waist went the way of the dodo bird (that is to say it was no more), those strange stabs grew ever more rambunctious and transitioned from being 'time-to-time' occurrences to constant flips, flops, and belly contorting acrobatic maneuvers. It felt like a troop of Riverdancers putting on a performance for an audience of my internal organs.

And of course, nighttime was the best time for the show.

However limited and curtailed, my daily lumberings seem to lull my on-board people during the daylight hours. They snoozed while I attempted to "nest" and went to multiple doctor appointments and weekly tests to confirm their collective health.  Then, just as I would turn and prop myself into some pitifully sad semblance of "Comfortable" at night, the house lights would go out and the shows would begin. Belly up. Belly down. Belly left. Belly right. "Enjoy the show, folks! We can do this all night!"

I looked with longing at my husband, who was sleeping soundly (and snoring loudly) beside me. Apparently he didn't get tickets for the show too.

The beauty of months of sleepless pregnant nights is that it makes for a rather easy transition into months of sleepless nights with preemie twinfants.

Every two hours. On the hour. They'd awake hungry, wet, and angry. The trifecta of primordial human emotions. Times two. Being preemies, both were struggling eaters in those first few months, and feeding each one the small amount of milk required took over 30 minutes per baby. And it was a two handed job; no simultaneous feeds at that point. Then I'd have to pump, which was a delightful past-time I took up when I endeavored to become the Human Milk Machine. 8 times a day I'd hook up to The Milker, feeling more bovine than homosapien at that point. So groggy and sleep deprived I found the repetitive rhythms of the pump to have a vocal quality to them. They spoke to me. I never answered back though; I found the conversation was often too snarky for my tastes. (And sometimes it was just plain rude. I mean, really.)

Even after getting through those sleep-deprived months with twinfants, there was still a sleepless road ahead. You probably didn't know this, but nighttime can be fun when you have a crib mate to entertain you; and even when you're in separate cribs, you can still flop from one to another all night long. Just for kicks and giggles. (And in case you weren't sure, the best times to pull these nocturnal shenanigans is between the hours of 1am and 7am).

Then it happened.

When the girls turned 3, they started to sleep. Just like that. "Good night, darlings" and off they'd go. All night. And in the morning, they'd sleep. Which means we got to sleep. Which means for the first time in nearly 4 years, I got to sleep. Really sleep. The kind of sleep where no one was kicking me in the kidneys, or screaming with fury at my audacity to let them get hungry (and they'd have thought I would have learned since the last time I had let that happen, which happened to be a whole hour and a half ago).

Which leads us to Spring Break. And to sleeping. And to the glory of being able to do that 7 blissful days in a row.

And you know what? I'm worth it. Absolutely.

Sleep on, my friends. Sleep. On.

Let's Stick Together. Yeah-Yeah-Yeah.

The girls are very into "Sameness". When given a choice, they'll most likely choose to wear the same clothes, eat the same thing, play with the same toys. Nearly always.

Most of the time we go along with these choices. They are making them. We're not forcing it. It's their relationship, we stand back a bit. Playing the role of interested observer in a different culture.

But we do offer and encourage difference between them, allowing them an opportunity to make different choices. If they want to. We do. Honestly.

Then there are the occasions where we will feel the need to make a choice of difference for them; to thrust difference in their laps without necessarily obtaining consent first.

Let me say this clearly: in our case, this almost always backfires. Gloriously. Leaving us in a state of sheer agitation, wondering why we ever tried to force a choice anyway.

Our current issue is with a toy bought over the Christmas holidays. A Clarice doe from Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer to be specific. In a moment of what we considered to be "Parental Knowing", we bought one Rudolph and one Clarice. I guess we figured, "Heck, they're both reindeer, and isn't the main character cooler than the side-cast? Surely the girls will enjoy having one of each.

Oh. We were wrong.

At the time, it all seemed to be okay. Ashlyn took to Clarice and Caedance had a begrudging acceptance of Rudolph, despite his not being tan and not having a bow on his head. Peace was maintained. (Of course, the threat of Santa skipping the houses of squabbling children may have helped).

Flash forward several months later and all pretense of accepting the clearly "sub par" reindeer (aka Rudolph) is gone. No amount of reasoning will convince Caedance that she doesn't want Clarice more than anything in the world. No amount of trickery or bribery on our part will make her stop fighting for it, attempting to pull it from her sister's vise grip. No amount. At all.

For Ashlyn's part, she's doing a fine job of rubbing it in too.
 "Oh, look at this soft tan reindeer." Batting her eyes.
 (Caedance: "I want a tan reindeer!").
"Look at her polka dot bow!" Gush. Gush. Gush.
 (Caedance: "I only want a toy with a polka dot bow!")
"See how this toy has a soft white belly?" Wink. Wink.
(Caedance: "I ONLY want toys with soft white bellies!")

Shooing them from the room only means they get louder. Walking away from the fighting/whining only means they'll follow you around; Ashlyn silently daring you to take action against her rightful claim on said toy, and Caedance quite vocally insisting that you do just that.

Ignoring them only works for so long before you begin seeing flames and clutching your hands.

The only thing to do is to deal with it. Head on.

"Caedance, Clarice belongs to Ashlyn. Go find another toy. Or go to Time Out."

"Ashlyn, stop antagonizing Caedance, or you're going to your room. Without Clarice."

End of story.

I wish I could say it is the end of the whining. But there has been some improvement. Caedance has decided rolled up socks make an adequate substitute for tan, white bellied, polka dot-bow-sporting reindeer. She has emptied out the sock drawer and is laying all their new, brightly colored socks out in order of preference.

Ashlyn has tired of trying to entice disobedience out of her twin, and has settled on playing "Steam Roller" with Clarice instead. Watching her lay the reindeer on the rug and then roll over her while saying, "Bye-Bye, Clarice" in a high pitched voice has a certain entertainment value.

And so with this temporary truce, Dan and I are left to question our judgments in light of our daughters' apparent preferences. They prefer "Sameness" right now. And maybe they will for awhile. Perhaps not all twins are like this, but at this moment, this is what we've got.

I could choose to be annoyed. But I'm not. I like dressing them alike. I like seeing two little clones prancing about. I do, and I'm not ashamed to say that. I doubt they'll always be like this. (And maybe some part of me wishes they could be). But right now I accept them just the way they are.

 Same. Different. It's all good.

Whine Whine Whine (And All The Jazz)

What is it about whining that has the power to grate at your nerves so exquisitely? When you break it down, what is it really? It's not the words, those repetitive "I Want" phrases that are fixed on an unending loop.  Heck, it's not even the repetitiveness of it, really (although that is annoying on its own).

It's the tone. Nails on a chalkboard would be a more welcome sound. Anytime.

Whining has the power to turn a perfectly articulate child (or adult, I've found) into a blubbering, incoherent fool. Yes. A fool. I'm not going to mince words. (That would be enabling, and that's an issue for another blog).

The girls have taken turns whining today. First it was Caedance, and now Ashlyn is enjoying her spin in the Whine-Mobile. The object of desire is a stuffed animal. "I want it!..buuuutttt, it's all I want....I can't stand not having it......it's just the thing I want....." and on and on and on. Whine. Whine. Whine.

It's annoying. It's draining. It's downright painful.

I want to yell, "Stop! I can't stand it anymore, you're driving me crazy!"

I could do that. But I don't.

Instead we answer with hugs. In our house we've found that the root of all whining evil tends to be a need for one-on-one attention. It's as if the daily struggles of sharing everything get to them both sometimes and there is a breakdown of reason. Sometimes you just need to be heard. In whatever way you can be.

And sometimes you just need to cry. (Because really, not everything is fair, is it?)

After 10 uninterrupted minutes of Mommy or Daddy Hugs, the outlook to life is good again. Reason can be approached. A solution in sight. And even a 6 year old can be rationale once more. For the moment, a compromise has been reached. Caedance will have it for now and Ashlyn get it at dinner time. Who knows what will happen after that. Will Caedance be able to handle the hand off or will she take another joy ride in WhineyTown? Only time will tell.

Or maybe there's enough time between now and then to be distracted by something else, preferably something that we already have two of.

I hope.

In Which I Remember How To Play...

Friends, it seems I have inadvertently forgotten how to play in the snow. I can only imagine your shock, your collective gasp of complete and utter disapproval. But it's sadly true.

A Winter Storm dumped a wet batch of snow this morning. With the temps mild, the girls were eager to get out and get playing in their cottony front yard. We all layered up and headed out.

Around me the girls frolicked, picking up the snow and dropping it. They scampered about, trudging from here to there with ease and joy. With F-U-N. My husband, working from home on a rare Snow Day for him, even joined in with their adventures. The three of them paraded around the yard, seemingly doing nothing, and yet having a blast. Fits of giggles and lots of grins.

Even bundled up in the vestiges of woolly-winter-warmth, I stood there cold and unsure of what my next step should be. Feeling the need for Purpose, I grabbed a shovel and started to work on the driveway. But that didn't feel right. It certainly wasn't fun. Next I thought about Practicality and reached for the bag of sidewalk salt, scattering it on our ever-treacherous porch steps. Again I stopped; still not fun.

When did I forget how to do this? I grew up in the country, with a wide expanse of a yard that held endless possibilities on a snowy day. I never thought about being cold, or being still, or being purposeful for that matter. Looking at my husband and my twins cavorting about aimlessly and with endless joy made me mildly annoyed. They can do it. Why can't I?

Darn it. I was going to.

Tossing the shovel aside and putting the bag of salt away for later, I jumped into the piles of snow my family had created. I even frolicked. (I did. It's not on film or anything, but you can take my word for it). We marched all around, seemingly doing nothing. Yet doing everything. We made a snowman (Arthur), we shook snow covered branches, we made snowballs, we got really cold. We made memories. Together.

That key word: together. How I love it.

We came in ready for some hot cocoa and a seat by the fire. We came in with rosy cheeks and tingling toes, with stinging fingers and 4 running noses. But we made memories today.

And I think I may have remembered how to play in the snow again.

Sniffles In Stereo

Today I'm thinking about medicine. I'm thankful for it, and marveling at how just a few days of it can erase 3 weeks of awful nastiness.

For 3 weeks I had taken on a role I do not like: Nose Wiper.

I'll do it. I'm a mom after all, and part of the job description is to pick up other roles as needed.

But I do not like it.I spent my days chasing around 2 six year olds who were oblivious to their constant snot-snorting and the omnipresent drip of it on their lips.

I will tell you this, they hate having their noses wiped. Hate it. This made my job harder. Much. Harder. So  like a hunter scoping out the prey, I would nonchalantly observe my children, tissue in hand, waiting for the right moment, (my moment), to swoop in and wipe a nose before there could be any protests.

Of course, there was another nose to wipe. (There always is). So I had to wait and plot out my scheme to get to the other nose, which was sitting on the face of a now-quite-wary Other Twin. Bribes come in handy sometimes, you know. Who doesn't want an M&M? And so what if first you have to let mom swipe at your face and maybe blow into a tissue. It's candy. Sacrifices can be made for candy-coated chocolate.

In the end we literally blew our way through 4 boxes of tissues. A record for our house, I think.

Within 3 days of starting the Magic White Stuff That Sort Of Tastes Like Bubblegum, the sniffles cleared up. Seven days out, they declare they are "All Better Now, Thanks Mom".

And my glory as a mother is seeing them better. Finally. And relinquishing my Nose Wiper job for now. And the fact that MY nose needed wiped after all this (with nary a tissue in sight) is okay too. It's what we do; Moms.

The Great Growly Monster of "Shush"

I was "Shushed" yesterday. Really and truly and actually told to "shhhhh". By my own offspring.

I was mid sentence when the moment occurred. Midway through a direction when it happened. "And then I need you to-" SSHHHH!! (Whaaa?)

Such betrayal. There was a flash of anger. A twinge of hurt. And a broad stripe of annoyance. "Did you just shush me?" I asked my precious darling little angels.

"Mommy, it was time for you to be quiet just then."

"Oh was it?" (Was it really? Because I don't think so.)

Shuffling the Emotion cards in my deck of Feelings, I pulled out the Parent face. With great patience (love and understanding were thrown in there somewhere too), I explained that one of the many benefits of being a parent is that we can't truly be "Shushed".

Well, not yet anyway. Sure, the day is coming, but I think Dan and I still have a few "Get Out Of Shushing Free" cards left from enduring the crazy that was their infancy and toddler-hoods....We've saved them up. Simple put:for now, no shushing.

My cherubs smiled at me and the rest of the day passed in polite, complimentary bliss.

But the fact remains; I've been shushed.

And so it begins.

Sniffle-sniffle-sniffly-sniff

We've been invaded by sinus issues here at our house. Dan and I are managing to hold our own against the constant, throbbing headaches and congestion. My personal mantra is, as ever was, "I will not let snot beat me. No.No. Not snot. Snot will not win and make me feel like crap again." Admittedly it's on the long side for a mantra, but it kinda works to the tune of Jingle Bells, so I think it's a keeper.

But I digress. Dan and I may be doing well, but the girls are struggling with it. This Season Of Gooey Noses makes for changes and challenges around our house.
First off, it means that the Kleenex boxes have multiplied and are cozied onto every nook and into each cranny I can find. (My placement strategy pretty much mirrors the movements of the girls: I walk around in a circle with my eyes closed until I bump into something. When I open my eyes and look around, I should be able to easily reach a box of tissues from where I am. If not, get one there, pronto.) 

It also means that I have to up the laundry duty, because if the girls DON'T get a tissue, they use their sleeve. Again and again and again.

During Seasons Of Sniffles there is the unwelcome noise of "Sniff" everywhere I turn. In the house. In the car. In the store. It matters not where I am, I will be immersed in the cacophony of "Sniff-Sniff-SNNNNNIIIIIIIIFFFFFFFFF". Really, it's enough to drive a girl crazy.

And of course the nose wiping. The ever constant wiping of noses that do not belong to me. My pockets and purse
run-eth over with large wads of tissues. I must be prepared in any situation, at any time, for Wiping Duty, because it would seem that the average 6 year old does not care about having mass quantities of snot hanging out of their nose at all. They have the uncanny ability to perform many tasks while balancing that gunk on their upper lip, and are completely unfazed by it. I on the other hand, tend to get disgusted. So I wipe.

Oh, Season Of Sniffles, Season of Goo. I cannot wait until you turn into Spring, at which point you will morph into the Season of Allergies. I'll have something else to write about then, indeed. But for now, you mock me with your duration and your tenacity to hold fort even when you are not welcome....

"SNNNNNIIIIIFFFFFFF".

(Ahh,it appears my services are needed elsewhere).

Oh, Sweet Slumber...and a Kleenex Box.

Every night the girls sleep with 2 items. Every night. Two things. The first is non-negotiable: their "She'll". Before you ask, it's their blanket. The name? Well, it's from the song, as in "She'll Be Coming 'Round The Mountain". This is what they named their blankets too many years ago for me to recall the exact moment. But it has stuck. And so has 'She'll' since it still must be tucked in with them, every night.

Item 2 is forever changing, based on their interest at that moment. While I long to fill that position with cute dolls and stuffed animals, the girls opt to choose odd items instead. Very often it's a book. How you can curl up with a book at night eludes me, but they do. Last night, Caedance snuggled to sleep with a Golden Book. A hard, cardboard covered copy of Disney's Alice In Wonderland. Because nothing says, "Sweet Dreams" like the flat rigidity of a book, right?

Other times it's household items that win that coveted "Next To She'll Placement" under the covers. They've each slept with feather dusters (unused ones, don't worry), Kleenex boxes (an odd choice), a wooden spoon they named "Nettie-Pie" (that one was kinda cute, I've got to say), and even my Bundt pans. In truth,  watching your child slumber alongside the gentle shine of a fluted tube pan is an interesting sight. Odd, but interesting.

We've also had the random articles of clothing as Item 2 title holders. Rolled up socks were a favorite for a period of time. They called them Cher-Chers and would love to pilfer them from Dan's sock drawer. That poor guy could never find the socks he wanted because his favorites tended to make the best Cher-Chers. For awhile they loved cuddling with pants and folded shirts, and I recall one night when they insisted on sleeping with their

Tu-Tu. Not "In" their tutu, mind you. With it.

I look with longing at Glow-Worms and stuffed dolls. Cute little kittens and furry bears call to me in the toy aisles, and sometimes I almost want to buy them in hopes that I can convince the girls to sleep with them. But what really  happens is that our stuffed animal collection continues to grow, left largely untouched and stuffed into the various over-flowing toy boxes.

I find myself sighing even as I write these words. (Can you hear it? Sigh...). Though odd, it has its charm. I suppose whatever brings them comfort should be what sends them off to dreamland every night. And while I'm waiting for the day they ask for my muffin pans or mixing bowls, I guess I'll be glad that they are quirky enough to know what they want. Even if it is odd.

You like me! You really like me!

We are luxuriating in a glorious stage of parenthood right now. Our daughters, at 6, have decided that they want to be near us, entangled with us, forever holding on to us, and heaping adoration at our feet.

I know how it sounds. You're wondering if this can be real, or you're waiting for the punchline to the joke. I know.

But it's true. Honest.

And we're loving it.

We've emerged from the battle zone that is twinfants and raising twin toddlers, and we're finally past the debacle of tantrums that defines "Twin Preschoolers".

We have schoolagers, albeit new ones. Still sweet ones.

It's a razor fine edge between them being cute and them being drama queens, and one misstep can sway the whole day in the wrong direction. But right now, at this moment, they want us. They are independent, or as much as one can be at 6 when the world is your own, if by "world" you mean "your house"; yet they still choose to be around us.

"Mommy, I just want to keep you," smiles Ashlyn as she wraps her arms around my neck in a tight embrace; my heart on my sleeve.

"Daddy, I will hold you tight so you're never afraid," declares Caedance as she attaches herself to her Daddy's leg; a curly haired attatche' case.

I know this won't last. I wish it would, but I know it won't. I know that the razor edge will continue to sharpen and it will be harder and harder at times to keep them on the friendly side of it. And I also know that is part of their growing up.

But right now we have them. And they have us. And, as it happens, they want to keep us. And I'm going to let them. For as long as they'll have us, (and long after they don't feel they need to anymore). Even then. We'll still love them. Always.

"Mommy, can I keep you forever?"

Oh my dear, I so wish you would.

Building a Better Bug...

We had a "First" for us today.

 A First School Project.

The assignment (which we chose to accept) was to create a "Litter Bug" for the school science fair. It had to be made out of recyclable materials (think bottles, jars, boxes, and let your mind roam in the trash), and be able to be hung up for display.

Being the eager beaver that I am, I began hoarding a stash of trash in the laundry room several weeks ago. Bottles, cans, boxes, straws, K-Cups: all were cleaned out and put aside to serve as Potential Bug Making Gear.

I've watched my stash pile grow to alarming and unstable heights until this weekend, when I could take it no more. It was time to reclaim my dryer. It was time to make the darn bugs.

We gathered the girls to the table and I unceremoniously dumped the trash in the middle. They were instructed to choose the body and we'd work from there.

Ashlyn chose an empty bread crumb can with a plastic lid while Caedance went for the empty milk carton. We then had the girls draw and color a picture of what they wanted their bugs to look like.

We had our plan. Ashlyn's would be a caterpillar; green with rainbow stripes and funky legs. Caedance would have a Ladybug, complete with a baby lady bug flying nearby.

Dan and I were surprised that, (another First), they did most of the work on their own. They traced, cut, glued, thought of the next step in construction. And..even more surprising..the kids have good ideas. I mean, really, they had actual coherent ideas that were helpful and not ridiculous.

In the end, we had two fabulous bugs and a smaller heap of trash to take out. They had fun creating them, and Dan and I had fun watching and guiding in the process.

And my laundry room is a trash free zone again. And I like that. A lot.