Operation: Making Hand Soap.

Soap Making Saga Continues.

So maybe you're tired of reading about my attempts to cut the financial corners down a bit. But. I'm writing about it anyway. Because it's important. Because it matters. And because I want to.

As you know, I've met with some success with trying my hand at making Laundry detergent. It's fun. It's cheap. It works. Cannot complain about it. Makes me feel a distant kinship with our pioneering ancestors, (their use of boiling lye compared to the relative ease of my dumping a few pre-made ingredients together not withstanding).

Riding on the wave of that glory, I decided to try my hand at another soap making endeavor when the last drops of liquid hand soap slowly eeked out of the soap dispenser. What a sad moment that is: empty bottle, needy hands. Ah, what to do.

I was fed up with buying jug after jug of refill soap when I knew darn well that I could make it for a fraction of the cost. I just never wanted to. But now....Ha! I've had laundry soap success! Let's add this to the list.

After some research, I gave it a shot.

Here's the How To part, for your appreciation.

Take 4oz of your favorite bar soap and grate it. (You'll get exercise AND soap. A winning combination as ever there could be).

Bring 1 jug of water to a boil. (Distilled water is good for this).

 Remove from heat and add the grated soap.
Stir until melted. (At this point, you'll have liquidy stuff. But do not despair! You're not done yet. The magic has yet to happen. This is a lesson in patience.)

Allow to sit for 15 minutes and give it another stir. Now let it set quietly for a few more hours to overnight so it will thicken. (Mine was ready after about 2 hours).

Once it thickens, and believe me, you'll know when it is...decide if you're happy with it. You can adjust it as needed. Too liquid-y? Reheat and add more soap. Too thick? Reheat and add more water. If you want it smooth it out a bit, take a moment to run an immesion blender through it.

When cooled, you can add a few drops of essential oils (if you want it to smell so 'purdy'), and some coloring, (if you want it to look so 'purdy' too). Fill your dispensers and wash away, friend; wash away.

As an added bonus, you pour the rest of the soap back into your jug, which now becomes a handy soap bottle. How great is that?

The exciting news is that it keeps for a long time, so you can make a big batch several times a year and have your soap when you need it.

My verdict is....
I am happy. I am. I added some lavender oil, which smells nice. I also used my immersion blender on the cooled soap to make it velvety smooth and nice.
We have automatic dispensers, so I wasn't sure how this stuff would feed out of it. It's been fine though. I like the stuff. It's true. And what I like even more is that a quart of it cost me a whopping 45 cents. That's right. 4 dimes and a nickle. Or 9 nickles, if you'd rather.
And before you say it, I know it's cheap at price clubs. That's where we've gotten it for the last few years. This represents a freedom from Da Man. I'm starting a thumb-on-nose revolution at our house whereby we don't buy stuff we can make.

Because I can.

Because it's just as good.

Because, darn it, I'm not falling victim to the mighty ad-men any more than I have to.

And because, it turns out, sometimes it's just as easy to save money as it is to spend it. (My first GALLON of soap cost a mere .78; the cost of the water).

So there ya go.
Give it a try. Let me know what you think.

Mama & The Angry Sprites.

Today I had the supreme privilege of shopping on my own, without my groupies. As I strolled quite leisurely through the aisles at my "reserved-for-when-the-girls-are-in-school" slow pace, I observed several other mothers who were toting their blessings around. Most of the kids were younger than mine are, and a few were not the "Happy Shoppers" that we've been overjoyed to see ours become.

The screams.
The angry, red faces.
The fury at being strapped into a cart; stuck.
It brought back so many memories.

Anytime you have to put "Kids" and "Shopping List" into one sentence, it can become an almost insurmountable effort. Trying to get through a list is taxing alone, when you're not playing referee to the fighting and or squabbling siblings that you must bring with you.

Mine had a knack of being perfect angels right up until we'd hit the "bought air" of a store. The doors would open and "whoosh", my sweet, happy mannered little
Dan-clones would turn into feral creatures, itching to unleash a reign of terror. It would happen so instantaneously that I'd almost look around to see if I could catch a glimpse of their formerly happy selves high tailing out to the parking lot.

And there I'd be, alone with Them. (Not the nice 'Them' that so lovingly and cooperatively went into the stroller and sang as I pushed them into the store; no, it was now the 'Other Them' who snarled and whined and hit).

With a smile, I'd press on. I had shopping to do. A list to tackle. Pushing the stroller in front of me and pulling the cart behind, I'd alternate between referring to my list (crossing off found items with whatever crayon happened to be in my pocket at the time), and acting as "Mad Cap Entertainer" to my stroller-bound captives.

They'd cry in the Produce section, but never fear! "Listen to the celery sing a song, my children!" And just like that, a performance worthy of many awards spilled forth. (You really should have been there.)

They'd fight in the Dairy department; the Girl In Back snagging a handful of the Girl In Front's hair and giving a hard yank. But never fear, dear children! "Watch Mommy do a happy cheese dance!" (Let's just say, Michael Flatley ain't got nothin' on me.)

By the time we reached the household supply areas, both kids were through with mommy's antics and no amount of my particular brand of product-based entertaining could sustain them. As I perused the paper towels and plastic bags, I'd usually be alternating between holding one crying baby to another, still pulling the cart behind me, and now using my hip to shove the stroller forward a few inches at a time. "Shush, shush, shush, my Heart," I'd cluck, "look at these pretty toilet brushes". After plopping that now-quieted offspring back into her seat holding a pristine Johnny Mop, I'd pick up the still-crying other one and attempt to interest her in the fascinating world of toothpaste and toothbrushes.

What seemed like a short list nevertheless managed to take up quite a bit of time and energy, leaving me ragged, on edge, and (quite frankly), in need of chocolate. Ready to be done with our outing, I'd always manage to pick the most ill-chosen check out line possible. You know the one, it 'seems' to be moving along 'just fine'. Then all the sudden, you find it has stopped and you are not moving forward at all. And you are faced with the choice of "Should I Stay" or "Should I Switch Lanes", only you're so worn out and bedraggled by the escapades of your children as you 'shopped' for the few things you needed and now your brain will explode if you have to make one more choice. And it no longer matters at that point because every other line is backed up and nearly as long. No matter how you look at it, you're stuck.

You know. THAT line.

When I did finally manage to break free from the grasp of retail hell, I'd have two much displeased and unhappy children; the extra long wait in the check out line having undone all my calming, and angering them anew. I'd set out for the doors at a near run, anticipating, nay....almost feeling...that moment of escape that awaited me just through those big, beautiful doors.

Whooooosh!

Two crying girls calmed down, instantly shushed by the outside world around them. Two happy girls, sitting in car seats and pleasantly babbling as we made our way home.

One very tired, very worn out mama, looking very much forward to the next big event in our day: Nap Time.

For everyone.

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.

On being "It"

The girls are on the stairwell waiting. Judging by the sounds of their shuffling feet, I'd wager they're starting to get pretty impatient right about now. Willing me to leave; perhaps attempting to use their twin ESP to mentally coax me away.

But I'm not going anywhere, thank you very much.

Approximately 15 minutes ago I decided to take a breather from being "Mom" and to have a seat on the couch. Trusty laptop in hand, I began the mundane and yet relaxing chore of checking email. It just so happens that my perch here in the living room allows for an uncanny ability to hear whatever is being said in the stairwell and hallway above me. Imagine my surprise when, typing away, I overheard the phrase, "No, we'll have to wait till 'It' leaves to do that."

It? What's that? Who's that? Looking around, I caught the fleeting glimpse of two curly heads ducking away. Oh. I see. Apparently I'M the 'It' in that sentence. I'm not sure when I became an 'It', actually. I was 'Mom' before lunch, still 'Mom' at rest time, and then again at snack. I guess I've been demoted.

More interestingly was the continued conversation that ensued between them, as they were blissfully unaware of my super ears (and the helpful acoustics) that allowed me to hear every single word.

"When she leaves, THEN we'll do it."

"See? She's still there. We can't do it now."

"Hey mom?" (Oh, I'm mom again, am I?) "Could you please go make dinner?"

No. I cannot. Thanks for asking.

"Look at her! She didn't go away yet. We STILL can't do it!!"

"Maybe we shouldn't do it?" (Atta Girl!) "We're not supposed to...but.....if she's not looking..." (Ugh. Foiled again.)

Their conversation volleyed back and forth for several minutes, stopping only to check to see if I was still there. Eventually they figured out that I wasn't leaving. And that revelation then lead to the next epiphany that whatever mischief they were plotting would have to be put on hold. And that maybe their time would be better spent doing something else instead.

They are now safely in the family room. Where I can watch them. Openly.

Carefully.

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 Denim Dilema

I don't know "who" they are designing jeans for these days, but I am fairly certain it is not for me. This makes me sad.

Today was a Look For A New Pair Of Jeans Day. There was a time when the very thought of this day, lurking somewhere ahead on the calender, was enough to give me an anxiety attack. Dread. Dread. Dread.

I'm better about the event now. But I do have "qualifications" for any pair of jeans that I buy:

First, I'd like my stretch marks to be covered, thank you very much. I view them proudly as my "badges of courage", but somehow I do not think that John & Jane Public care to see them. No low risers for me. However, in saying this, I am NOT saying that I want my pants to come up anywhere near my arm pits. So let's find a happy compromise.

Second, although I am rather pleased with my derriere, it is another body part that I'd prefer to keep under-wraps, if we could. I know what you're thinking: nothing says, "I'm a modern mother in the prime of her life" quite like bending over and showing "butt cleavage"; but I'm just not that girl, I'm sorry to say.

Third, no bedazzling, please. Don't get me wrong, sparkles are pretty, and I like to wear jewelery. Just not on the outer seams of my pants, or lining the pockets, or in a fanciful butterfly decorations on the rear pockets. I'll have to pass on those too, please.

Three things. That's a short list. And yet what a tiring hunt these three tiny qualifications make buying jeans. Too gap-y. Too low. Too high. Too....shiny. It's enough to make me want to create a "Yoga Pant Only" rule.

In the end, after some careful searching, much trying on, and some minor concessions, I had some denim success. And the hunt did not get the best of me. I still left the store with a smile on my face. Success was hard won, true; but it was won just the same.

Will you have another baby with that?

"Are you going to have more kids?"

I get this question a lot. I don't know why people want to know if we plan on reproducing more offspring. I suspect that it's either out of polite "golly I don't know what else to talk about but since you're a woman in her reproductive years this could be a topic" conversation, or just an odd fascination and curiosity with the whole thing. I'm not sure.

The question comes to me politely enough. Most women (and the occasional man, which is weird in a way) will say, "So. You have twins. How nice! Are you going to have any more?" There is, however rare, the other faction who will phrase it less as a question and more as a statement; nonchalantly and as if it's expected. "You'll be having more children.(?)" This makes me think of the polite hostess leaning over your empty cup, teapot in hand, spout tipped and ready to pour into your cup. "You'll be having more tea?" It isn't really a question, is it? She's there with the pot. Your cup is empty. You'll be having more. They'll see to it.

The response always ready at the tip of tongue is "No". (For those polite "hostesses", I feel inclined to say "No, thank you. I'm good.")

It's not that we don't love being parents; we do. Nor is it that I don't cherish being a mother; I most certainly do. It's just that "Dickinson,Family of Four" has an enchanted ring to it at this stage in our lives. Right now.

I will say that I loved being pregnant. I loved the entire process that carried me from that first pee-stick-positive-test all the way to sleepless nights spent with squalling twinfants. (Even though that pregnancy was fraught with a squajillion complications). I loved that. A lot.

But I'm content right now. Family of Four.

And when people ask me if (or WHEN) more are coming down the pike, I can smile and say "We're happy. This is us right now. It's good."

And it's true.

All good.

I never knew...

I didn't know how much I longed to be a mom until I became one. Nothing in your whole life can ever prepare you for the daily joys and sorrows that this 3 letter title can give you. Mom.
And I never knew. I had no idea.
But I wanted it, as it turned out. Badly.

I have the joy of being home with my girls, and that is a privilege for which I am thankful every single day. We've had 6 years of togetherness, they and I. 6 years to create a daily pattern that has its ebbs and flows, like anything else. Our good moments are golden and our bad ones can be frightful. In the end, it all works out.

Today I found myself squished on the couch between them: each of us with a book in hand, quietly reading away a few minutes of the afternoon. And it caught me off guard, this moment of peaceful bliss. It was a portrait of who we are as Mother & Daughter: Comfortable. We can be together. Just like that. Be. I love it. I love this.

Like every moment, it passed too quickly. The timer went off on the oven sending me into the kitchen, and I came back into the family room to find my spot on the couch taken over by a large pile of Care Bears who were being lectured by two little girls waving their books around with a flourish. "Honestly, Cheer Bear! I don't know what to do with you," exclaims Ashlyn. (Cheer Bear, for her part, looks dejected). "OH! Share Bear. THAT was certainly a very bad choice, don't you think? I think you're going to bed right now," declares Caedance, "Bad choice." (I don't know what Share Bear had done in my absence, but I can say that she did not look apologetic about it. Whatever it was.

And so we go on about our day. We've had 6 years to perfect this. 6 years to go along and get it right, get it wrong. But to be together.