tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26147678746910334252024-03-18T15:07:49.510-07:00HappylandRebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519701220302400071noreply@blogger.comBlogger43125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2614767874691033425.post-12527074050145781152020-04-13T12:47:00.002-07:002020-04-13T12:51:56.686-07:00Easter Weekend (Covid Style)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><b>April 10, 2020</b></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Covid-19 Quarantine, Day 30</b></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">It’s 8 o’clock pm and Nicole and I are downstairs watching “Good Luck Charlie”.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Allie ditched us tonight in favor of finishing “Iron Man” with Chris.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>By Allie’s request, they are watching all of the Marvel movies in chronological order.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I like the Marvel movies too, but Coco doesn’t.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’m content to keep her company watching shows she likes instead.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Coco is excited Allie isn’t watching with us tonight, because it means she can have Allie’s spot on the couch.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Allison is Sheldon-like in her love for her spot.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Though I miss Allison’s company, I’m excited too.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Now I can have Coco’s spot on the couch by the armrest.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Allison comes down when we are halfway through our first episode.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Mom, Dad wants to know where the Firestick remote is.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Why does Dad assume I know where it is?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The boys probably did something with…” I trail off because I remember where I put the remote.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Occasionally I hide it from the boys to keep them from sneaking upstairs and watching TV on the sly.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“It’s in my closet.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Silver flat, lowest shoe shelf.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Allie turns and heads back upstairs, not even a little bewildered about why the remote would be in one of my shoes.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Stranger things have happened here.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Nicole and I watch three episodes, then I tell her I’m ready to go upstairs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Can I stay up later?” she asks.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“You want to stay up later?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>All alone?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>In the basement?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>With the door closed?”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Nicole always insists that all the lights be off and that the door is closed when we watch TV in the basement.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Yes.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Yes.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Yes.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Maybe leave the door open.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I tell her she can stay up until ten, and leave the basement door open just a bit.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’m wasting time on Facebook a few minutes later when she comes up and pulls the door all the way shut.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She really likes the door closed.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I head upstairs and into my room.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Allie and Chris are sitting on the bed; Iron Man is almost over.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Allie makes a half hearted motion to get up, but I tell her she can stay there for a bit longer.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I do thirty calf raises and then lie on the floor to do my nightly exercises.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I tore a muscle in my calf back in December.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It’s healed now, but I have this chronic numbness in my right leg.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The physical therapy exercises seem to help, so I try to do them every night even when I don’t want to.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">When I finish, I kick Allison out of the bed so I can get in.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She settles on the floor in front of our bed with her blanket and her pillow.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I browse Facebook some more; I work a couple of the mini crosswords.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>When Iron Man ends, Allison asks if we want to watch an episode of Big Bang Theory.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">We started letting Allison watch Big Bang with us a few months ago.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It has a lot more sexual references than I remember it having when I watched it <i>without</i> my 12 year old daughter.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Still, we let her watch because we figure she might as well hear the references when we are around. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">[I have not had ‘the talk’ with her yet.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I hope that she feels comfortable asking me questions as they arise, and I also bought her a couple of books.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She was absent on the day they watched the sex education video at school this year.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She made the mistake of pointing that out to me.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Oh no!” I said.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“That’s so sad you missed it!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Don’t worry, we can watch it here.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Umm, that’s okay, Mom.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I arranged my face in what I hoped was a sympathetic expression.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“No really.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It’s fine.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We’ll put the video on the big screen in the basement.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’ll make popcorn.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Do you want me to invite your dad or should we make it just us girls?”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Allison laughed, but nervously, like she couldn’t tell for sure whether or not I was joking.]</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Anyway, Nicole comes into our room about halfway through the Big Bang episode.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She glares at Allie. “Why does she get to stay up later?!” she asks.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“I want to watch too!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“It’s not appropriate for you, sorry,” I answer.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“You can watch when you are 12.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“It’s not fair!” she yells, but she still leaves the room and goes to bed.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Chris, Allie and I finish the episode in which Sheldon and Howard fight over a parking spot.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It ends with Sheldon explaining “the naked revenge wiggle” to his dry cleaner. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Allison says good night and attempts to carry her blanket, pillow, water bottle, and various other paraphernalia out the door all at once.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She manages it, but not faster than she could have if she’d just taken two trips.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Chris and I go to sleep thirty minutes later, and I don’t even wake up when the boys sneak in sometime during the night.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><b>April 11th, 2020</b></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Covid-19 Quarantine, Day 31</b></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Chris gets up first this morning.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He is going to Illinois to buy a tractor.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Excuse me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>A trencher.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Apparently there is a difference.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I debate lying in bed a little longer; Coco has already taken the boys downstairs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I barely even heard them talking this morning.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>A pre-Easter miracle.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">But then I remember the travel hand sanitizer I want Chris to take in his truck.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I go in the hall and yell downstairs, “There is some hand sanitizer in the mudroom for you to take!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Where is it?” Chris yells back. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“In the mudroom! On top of my work stuff!” I bellow.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We are at an impasse.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I refuse to go downstairs to tell him quietly, and he refuses to come upstairs where he can hear me.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Allison opens her door and looks at me blearily. “Mom! What in the world are you doing?!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">She’s unhappy that I’ve been bellowing outside of her door.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Sorry,” I whisper.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I shove her gently back into her room and shut her door.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Waking tweens is a dangerous game, and not one I wish to play any longer.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I hop back into bed knowing I won’t be able to go back to sleep, but also knowing that’s no excuse not to at least make an effort.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Ryan and Joel come bounding up the stairs seconds after I close my eyes.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Mommy!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>A big bug!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>You have to come with us!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Bugs are not allowed to live in my house, at least with my knowledge.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I won’t seek them out outside and kill them, but I will definitely seek them out in my home and kill them.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Is it a centipede?” I ask, now thoroughly alert.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“No!” shouts Joel, “It’s one with a whole bunch of legs! You have to come see! We have to kill him!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Get the vacuum!,” adds Ryan.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">This is not their first rodeo.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Joel takes my hand and leads me down the stairs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I grab the Dyson stick vacuum off of it’s charger and the three of us race down to the basement.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I see the centipede on the trim.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I turn the vacuum on before I push it against him, in case he decides to make a run for it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He does, but I plop the vacuum down on top of him.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’m pretty sure I see him die before the vacuum sucks him up the rest of the way.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>(I’m relieved, because I recently vacuumed up a huge centipede and he fell back out of the vacuum later.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He was covered in gray dust and moving slower than usual, but he was clearly still alive.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It was the stuff of horror movies.)</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I keep vacuuming the basement tile for a while, because I believe that if I continue to run the vacuum the centipede will be less likely to make a zombie-bug appearance later.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The boys cheer.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’m a hero.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Ryan and Joel grab the My Little Pony castle and their bin of cars from the basement, and we all head back upstairs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I see Nicole, and am reminded that I didn’t brush her hair yesterday.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Or the day before.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It is such a struggle to get her hair brushed, that I actually made an arrangement with her that I will only check her hair on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays during the quarantine.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It is an arrangement she is swift to remind me of when I tell her to go brush her hair now.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“No! You said you are only going to check my hair on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays!” she yells.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“It’s Saturday!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“But I didn’t get a chance to brush it yesterday, so we need to do it today.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’m so tired of having this argument with her.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’ve offered to shave her head numerous times, but so far she refuses.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">An absolute battle commences.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She is screaming.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’m frustrated.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She’s frustrated.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I finally whip out my phone, “That’s it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’m going to email the Easter Bunny.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“What?! You can’t do that!” Nicole says defiantly, but I can hear the hint of question in her voice.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Watch me.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I glare and then proceed to open my phone.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I compose an email out loud:</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“To: <a href="mailto:ebunny@gmail.com"><span class="s2" style="color: #000087; font-kerning: none;">ebunny@gmail.com</span></a>.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Dear Easter Bunny, Hi.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>How are you doing?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We are doing well, except that Nicole is having a really hard time doing what her mother tells her…”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Wait!” Nicole says.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I watch her internal struggle play out on her face as she contemplates her next move.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She scowls.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Glares at me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Scowls again. “Fine. I’ll brush my hair.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">[I actually wasn’t sure whether this charade would work on Nicole.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The other day, she told me that her friend Ava said that there was no Easter Bunny or Santa.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Ava said that the parents did it all.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Nicole is nine, and I went through a similar situation with Allison a few years ago.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I should have been prepared, but I wasn’t. Allison was persistent in her quest for the truth.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She asked me over and over again if there was actually a tooth fairy; often she asked right in front of Nicole.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I finally decided to tell her the truth.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I pulled her in to my room.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“You know how you have been asking about the tooth fairy lately?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Well…I’m the tooth fairy.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Allison smiled.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She giggled.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Then she pursed her lips.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Wait.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>What about Santa?”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Umm.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Also me.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“The Easter Bunny?”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Me.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">It happened so fast.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>All of a sudden Allie knew the truth about every holiday, and later I wondered if I’d done it wrong.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My parents had never come right out and said that they were Santa or the Easter Bunny.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We just eventually knew.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i>They</i> knew we knew, and we all pretended that we didn’t know they knew we knew.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Ha!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>That’s actually how they handled giving us “the talk" too.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Genius.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">In any case, I had considered handling Nicole’s revelation a little differently.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I ended up saying, “Well that’s sad Ava doesn’t believe in the Easter Bunny or Santa anymore!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I know a family where as soon as someone says they don’t believe they stop getting presents.”]</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Anyway, Nicole is either not willing to risk me emailing the Easter Bunny or she is not willing to admit that she no longer believes, because she heads upstairs to brush her hair.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">When she gets back down, all four kids have their horns on.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Joel takes Ryan’s red car out of his hand.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Ryan smacks Joel on the back, hard, then sits pouting silently in his too small spider-man jammies. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Joel sits happily looking out the window at a squirrel who “jumps and wags his little tail” until Nicole comes and sits on him (she sits on Joel, not the squirrel).<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Joel screams and punches Coco. Allison takes Joel’s blankie and runs away.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I accuse all of my offspring of just wandering around looking for people to annoy, and I threaten to cancel Easter.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I wonder when Chris will be home.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">When Chris does finally walk in the door, I say in one long breath, “How did it go? Did you get the trencher? Did you use the hand sanitizer? I’m going for a walk. Good luck.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Fifty minutes later, I’m feeling much better and suspect that all of my children will survive this day after all.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>When I walk back into our culdesac, I see Chris, Nicole and the boys all outside.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Ryan and Joel run toward me ecstatically.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“You want to play the monkey game now? Do you want to?!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">They mean monkey in the middle, but I tell them we’ll let Daddy and Coco finish their game of horse first.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They just started, so I join.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Nicole tells me I have to go after Chris.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He keeps shooting from farther back than I can, and utilizes one particularly difficult shot from behind the trencher.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I don’t make a single basket and earn the letters H-O-R.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Thankfully, Nicole gets Chris out by calling ‘granny shot’ every time she shoots.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>When it’s just Nicole and me, I start making baskets.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“I’m going to win and you are going to lose!” Nicole taunts.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“It’s time to get out the big guns.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Oh.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The big guns aren’t working.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She is still working on the trash talk.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">When she has H-O-R-S, and is about to shoot to keep from getting her E, she turns to me.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Hey, how about we make a bet?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>If I make this, I don’t have to eat a banana or an egg before nachos.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>If you win, I still have to eat something healthy first.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>(Since the quarantine I’ve been letting the girls eat nachos for lunch as long as they have something healthy first.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Our dietary standards are really slipping.)<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Nicole misses the basket. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Allison joins us outside, and the whole family plays monkey in the middle.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>When Joel is the monkey, he jumps around making monkey noises and shouting, “Give me back my banana!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">When Chris is the monkey, he comes running full speed at whoever has the ball, arms flailing around.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Joel and I dissolve into fits of laughter whenever he comes at us.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We bend over holding the ball, laughing so hard that our laughter turns silent.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We gasp for breath.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I try not to pee my pants (I am successful).</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Allison and Ryan want to play family soccer instead of monkey in the middle.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We have a vote.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>There are two votes for, one vote against, and three abstentions. Soccer it is.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I assign Allison and Nicole as captains and they begin selecting their teams.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Nicole chooses Ryan first.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I bounce around shouting, “Pick me! Pick me!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Allison picks me, but I can tell it’s out of pity because instead of saying, “I choose Mom,” she says, “Ok, fine.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Mom I guess.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">It doesn’t end up mattering, because Joel insists on being on Chris’ team.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We decide that it will be Chris, Joel and me against Allison, Nicole and Ryan.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Joel takes both our hands as we walk to our side. “Hey, we gots a lot of big guys on our team!”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Even with both ‘big guys’ on the same team we are fairly evenly matched.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I ruthlessly take the ball from Ryan and aim for the goal.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It would have been a decent kick, but Nicole is in the way.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The ball hits her right in the stomach, and she doubles over.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She is laughing but also in pain.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>While I’m checking if she’s okay and apologizing, Ryan makes an attempt at a goal.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Chris blocks it, but when he looks up he sees Joel half way to the garage. “Where are you going, Joel?” he yells.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“I’m thirsty,” he answers simply.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Family soccer is over.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Take five!” we tell each other, “Not minutes.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Hours.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>See you at 6 pm.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I make myself lunch when I get inside.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I put a bowl of leftover soup in the microwave, butter a piece of bread and add a couple slices of turkey and some cheese.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I arrange my half sandwich and soup neatly on my plate, and sit down to eat.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Joel walks by and stares at my lunch.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Hey!” he says excitedly, “I want some soup!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“It’s all gone, sorry,” I tell him.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Joel stares at my soup again.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“No it’s not!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Look!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>There’s some right there on your plate!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“That’s my soup,” I say hopefully.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“It’s okay, you can share!” answers Joel.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He smiles and nods his head in encouragement.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I resignedly scoop half of my soup into a plastic bowl and hand it to Joel.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The boys don’t notice that it’s playstation time until closer to 2 o’clock, so I tell the girls we’ll dye eggs at 4.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I go upstairs to my room and lie down.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I fall asleep and dream that I’m sleeping on my stomach.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>When I wake up, I’m sleeping on my stomach.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I used to have exciting dreams.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Allison comes in at 4:30 pm, and I agree that we should start dying eggs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She pulls out the mugs and the food coloring and boils water in the electric kettle.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Nicole scoops teaspoons of vinegar into each mug, and Allie pours in the boiling water.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>All four kids add food coloring and begin happily dipping eggs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>This year, none of the eggs crack.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Nobody spills.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Everybody listens.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">When all the eggs are dyed, the kids head outside and strap their horns on again.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Allie and Nicole fight over the rules of their made up game.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I can hear them screaming from the kitchen.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I hear Joel or Ryan crying.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Chris comes in long enough to complain that “these kids are driving me nuts.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I get a video call from one of my best friends from college.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I haven’t seen him in years, but since covid-19 has us all confined to our houses we’ve video chatted twice.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We add another good friend to the call, and I’m overjoyed to see them both.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Nicole comes in to tattle on Allie.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Ryan comes in to ask if he can watch a show, and I tell him no.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He uses the step stool to reach the remote and turns on Ninjago.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I allow it because I don’t feel like stopping him.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Allie storms in, clearly mad at Nicole.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Joel comes in crying and sits on my lap, then joins Ryan on the couch.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I pretend I don’t see them watching TV.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">My friends refer to my house as a circus more than once.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’m enjoying talking to them so much that I abandon my original plans for dinner and make chicken nuggets and tater tots instead.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Yes…for the second night in less than a week.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I make plates for Ryan and Joel, and Allie, Nicole, and Chris help themselves.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>By the time I sign off my video chat and get a plate, it’s slim pickings.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We all point fingers at who ate more than their share of tater tots, but really, one package of tater tots and 25 chicken nuggets is just not enough to feed my family of six anymore.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The food is gone, and Joel and Ryan are still hungry.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I cut up apples and cucumbers and divide them between the kids.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Nicole makes the mistake of leaving the table to use the restroom.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Joel and Ryan steal all of her apples and most of her cucumbers.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She takes it pretty well.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">In fact, after eating, Nicole feels well enough to put her horns away and replace them with her halo.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She cleans the basement, then the main level.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I ask the girls to put the boys to bed, just to see how it will go.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqTBoLLf1pMGUxI0maKEetT2IfTExNeKoOfZe-L-b9WqCrIcB5jSSwMBmjFql99LaV49PwgNnuPFTK0M_vVzoSiHr50vAIqZC2-neDqghBxt1I_i9sfqYhRjQs1dPNwzXCMH51P_vxs5CC/s1600/IMG_6184.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqTBoLLf1pMGUxI0maKEetT2IfTExNeKoOfZe-L-b9WqCrIcB5jSSwMBmjFql99LaV49PwgNnuPFTK0M_vVzoSiHr50vAIqZC2-neDqghBxt1I_i9sfqYhRjQs1dPNwzXCMH51P_vxs5CC/s320/IMG_6184.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">It does not go well.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>There is a lot of screaming upstairs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I go up to investigate and tell Allison I no longer need her help.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I brush the boys’ teeth, and Nicole reads them their stories while I gather three days worth of laundry from their room and put it in our hamper.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I can’t help but notice the three or four days worth of laundry that Chris has left <i>next</i> to his hamper.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Will you please clean up your clothes in the closet—it’s stressing me out,” I say to Chris.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Chris is lying in bed reading a comic.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He fake sighs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Ugh. Clean floors make me stressed!”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I know he is lying, but I can’t prove it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I roll my eyes and read in the hall until the boys fall asleep.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">It’s 8 o’clock when I go back downstairs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I promised the girls one episode of Good Luck Charlie, but while we watch I run though the items still on my to-do list: dishes, counters, vacuuming, shower, Easter Bunny duties.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It’s not all going to happen, so I mentally cross out shower.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I won’t see anyone but immediate family in person, and it’s called FaceTime, not SmellTime.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Maybe I’ll have time for a shower tomorrow.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The girls head up to bed.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I remind Nicole that the Easter Bunny can’t come until everyone is asleep, and I remind Allison to stay in her room.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I finish my nightly cleaning routine and go upstairs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Allison’s light is still on, but Nicole appears to be asleep.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I go into my room to retrieve the candy I’ve stashed there and notice that Chris is asleep.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Hey, Chris!” I say, not at all quietly. “You have to help me!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Do not ruin Easter.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Just give me a minute,” he replies sleepily.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I stand right next to the bed and stare at him until it gets awkward.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He opens one eye.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Yeeesss?” he says.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Get. Up.” <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Satisfied that Chris won’t fall back asleep, I take two Costco sized bags of candy and a jigsaw puzzle and lug them down to the kitchen table.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’m using a large kitchen knife to open the boxes I’ve been hiding the last couple of days when I hear footsteps in the dining room.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Knife in hand, I look at Allie menacingly.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“What did you see?!” I demand.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Allison is covering her face, but I suspect she can still see me and my knife.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Nothing! I just wanted to see if you’d turn the music down!” she says quickly, “This is not your quietest night.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Back to bed!” I say, blocking the entry to the kitchen with my body (and my knife).<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She scurries back up the stairs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I turn the music down.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I take the now empty boxes out to the recycling bin and wash my hands.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I use a clorox wipe to clean the door knobs, light switches and faucets, because you can’t be too careful these days.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I make a drink.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Santa might like milk and cookies, but the Easter Bunny likes rum.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I fill the kids’ baskets with goodies.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Chris and I stuff all one hundred and thirty eggs and hide them on the main level and in the basement.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I take the drawings the youngest three kids drew for the Easter Bunny and leave a note in their place.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I want to add, “P.S. I’m watching you!” to the end, but I refrain.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><b>April 12, 2020</b></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Covid-19 Quarantine, Day 32</b></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I don’t end up falling asleep until after 2 am.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It makes for a short night since the girls come into our room at 7:20.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They wake the boys (a strange turn of events) and tell them it’s Easter.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Joel jumps up and yells something unintelligible.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Ryan stands up, but still looks pretty tired.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Did you guys want to sleep in more?” Allison asks us politely.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I look around at the four children standing around my bed.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“It seems a bit late for that offer, does it not?”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Well, we can take the boys to my room if you want?”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Allie is on her best behavior.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“It’s Easter,” I say, “We’ll get up.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Boys, put your underwear on and get dressed.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I grab for the laundry bag sitting next to my bed.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The load was actually washed and dried two days ago, and I ran the dryer cycle three times to avoid having to take it out.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Oh.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>This should probably be fluffed before I fold it,” I thought to myself each time I remembered it was in there.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Unfortunately, the boys ran out of underwear completely yesterday, so I was forced to finally put the clean clothes in the bag and bring it upstairs. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I dig through the bag and hand each boy a pair of boxer briefs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Ryan attempts to put his underwear on over his pull-up not once but twice before one of his sisters takes pity on him and helps.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I head into the bathroom and brush my teeth and wash my face.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I can hear the girls struggling to keep the boys upstairs, so I skip brushing my hair and just re-gather it into a pony tail.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Chris comes in and gets ready too, and then we join the kids at the top of the stairs.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The boys are excitedly pointing at the eggs they can see and keep shifting from side to side, so they can see around me while we go over the ground rules.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Boys, you get to see your presents from the Easter Bunny first, and then we’ll hunt eggs after, okay?” Nicole says kindly.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Boys.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Do. Not. Touch. Any. Eggs,” Allison warns sternly.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I guess she is the bad cop in this scenario.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The kids wait for me to go downstairs first, so I can turn on the lights and get a video of them all coming down the steps together.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I make them pose for a picture or two and then set them free.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They all come barreling down the steps yelling, “Chaaarrrrge!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Joel runs by me last, still chanting, “Charge! Charge!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I keep my camera pointed on the steps and the video rolling, so I don’t miss Chris running down the steps alone a few seconds later also yelling, “Charge!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The kids check out their baskets.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Allison gets her favorite book trilogy, Renegades.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Nicole gets a Pusheen coloring book, some new markers, and a journal.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The boys have a spot it-numbers and shapes game propped up between their two tiny baskets. (Their mother bought Allison and Nicole nice large baskets from Pottery Barn Kids with their names embroidered neatly on the basket liners.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She’s been meaning to buy nice baskets for Ryan and Joel, but she never got around to it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Allison pointed out the discrepancy the night before, but the boys don’t seem to notice nor care.)</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">There are three new jigsaw puzzles and a basketball for everyone to share, and all the kids have candy in their baskets.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>After reading the note from the Easter Bunny and exclaiming over their gifts, Allison and Nicole dump their baskets’ contents unceremoniously on the floor in preparation for egg hunting.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The boys follow suit, though Joel has already opened a small package of gummy bears and shoved them all in his mouth at once.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I make the kids stand still for just a couple more photos, then say, “On your marks! Get set! Go!!!”</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5d23hZtrf3Dx9ahUcmz1RIm9zjBmgLCXdXg1dxTyTC0yasMfX7SCd2WoeuMRYESG6e6Bmu4qCSmpR0T3jWfDf_KnTxwu_OaXxLqUq79tJ51R0-qyTx2NzDzrVMHapfASzVYYoAUGCdHIu/s1600/IMG_6194.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5d23hZtrf3Dx9ahUcmz1RIm9zjBmgLCXdXg1dxTyTC0yasMfX7SCd2WoeuMRYESG6e6Bmu4qCSmpR0T3jWfDf_KnTxwu_OaXxLqUq79tJ51R0-qyTx2NzDzrVMHapfASzVYYoAUGCdHIu/s320/IMG_6194.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">All four of them tear about like maniacs, collecting eggs with a feverish intensity I rarely see applied to any other task.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“This is so fun!!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’m founding some!!” Joel yells as he careens through the hall.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Nicole and Ryan both see an egg in the vase on the kitchen counter.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She sweetly hands it to her brother. “Here you go Ryan, I think you saw it first!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">When Joel asks me to help him find more eggs, I catch Allie stealthily following us, no doubt hoping for hints on eggs they’ve missed.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivcWUSnnHU_H0RQA6jtTkvkkGMOaggF9_321IkesXTYxt3usE1ddNhGNfUTy2czya1t9zdq8-bIVKv3L_E-MT9Y-2UC-FtD2T5sU808V2doJVRS4RKYUhpf18OOOUKlAZQvN10JfVwAhKV/s1600/IMG_6218.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivcWUSnnHU_H0RQA6jtTkvkkGMOaggF9_321IkesXTYxt3usE1ddNhGNfUTy2czya1t9zdq8-bIVKv3L_E-MT9Y-2UC-FtD2T5sU808V2doJVRS4RKYUhpf18OOOUKlAZQvN10JfVwAhKV/s320/IMG_6218.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The kids finish their first run through of the main level and basement, then decide to count eggs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We open 107 eggs, which means there are still 23 out there.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The search continues.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I help too.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Now that I’m 38 years old, I can hide the eggs the night before and still be pleasantly surprised when I find them the next morning.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Allison finds two $5 dollar bills and three $1 bills.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She scoffs when Chris tells her she has to split whatever money she finds with Nicole.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She adamantly insists she shouldn’t have to share, but when Nicole finds a $10 bill in an egg her diatribe fades.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">When nobody can find any more eggs, including Chris and myself, we count again.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>One hundred and twenty nine.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>One is still missing, but the kids decide they are willing to let that go while they assess their loot. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Joel is popping open eggs as fast as he can.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He gasps in delight every time.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“I got another….this!!” he yells happily, holding up a snickers bar.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I open the box for the dinosaur puzzle and dump all 100 pieces onto the floor.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Nicole, Allison, Ryan and I begin piecing it together.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Chris helps from the couch. “That piece goes there…by your foot.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Nope.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Not that one.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Wrappers pile up around Joel.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He’s eaten at least five or six fun size packages of gummy bears when he asks me to open his ring pop.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He steps daintily around the puzzle pieces.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Caw, caw!” he mutters absentmindedly in what we assume is his best pterodactyl impression.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">We finish the dinosaur puzzle and begin the pirate one.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Ryan gathers the pieces with the purple octopus tentacles and joyfully snaps them in place.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“The tent-it-tulls! I’m doing all the tent-it-tulls!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Joel eats 6 more pieces of candy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He prances by the emerging pirate ship and shouts, “Yo-ho, let’s go!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The puzzle is finished except for once piece.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Nicole, Ryan and I all stand up and look around.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Allison remains sitting.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Nicole asks her to move.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She asks nicely the first time, not so nicely the next four.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Finally Allison raises one side of her bum off of the floor, high enough to grab the missing piece.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She triumphantly pops it in place.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Chris makes coffee, and we both eat breakfast.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I offer various breakfast foods to the kids, but they decline all of them.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“We are having CANDY for breakfast!” they declare.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>(It’s fine with me, because that’s how Claussens do holidays.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We let them eat as much candy as they want the day of the holiday, but around 6 or 7 at night all of the candy gets dumped into the candy drawer.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Until it’s gone, they can each have three pieces a day for gouter.)<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Allison sorts her candy by type and arranges it in a semi circle around herself.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She announces she is having a candy swap, and convinces her three siblings to join her.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Once everyone’s ‘shop’ is set up, they travel from store to store, taking turns trading candy they like for candy they like even better.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2oKPrqffFtA9PZOAUdq-sforFrKV2h_CzTM-6K7lTnPlFDonAvoXn9U5Y15_3IPYaiXzfsbEY8_Z9KNzni1Qi16B739yhBHFZsdlZRTpgNIoNofr78NuhLNOir6uVOtgyAFBtP1joPicw/s1600/IMG_6226.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2oKPrqffFtA9PZOAUdq-sforFrKV2h_CzTM-6K7lTnPlFDonAvoXn9U5Y15_3IPYaiXzfsbEY8_Z9KNzni1Qi16B739yhBHFZsdlZRTpgNIoNofr78NuhLNOir6uVOtgyAFBtP1joPicw/s320/IMG_6226.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The game evolves as Allison and Nicole create price lists on post-its.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Nicole keeps her prices low.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>One package of fun size skittles can be bought with one York Mint and so on.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Allison is the Dierbergs of the candy shop world.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Her products are neatly arranged, and her prices are sky high.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She charges three packages of Sweet-Tarts for a single Reece cup.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Both girls gather some candy from all four shops into a basket and hand it to me, so I can be the customer.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I approach Allison’s store first.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I pay the outrageous fee for a Reece cup and don’t even mind, because I don’t care for Sweet-Tarts.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Allison regrets her decision immediately and later buys the Reece cup back from me for two Milky Ways, a Snickers bar and a package of Peanut M&Ms.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">At Nicole’s store I give her a package of skittles to buy a Milky Way.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She hands me the Milky Way and then says, “Here, you can have one more for free!”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I tell her thank you but refuse.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She is generous to a fault.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">When I get to Ryan’s store he’s holding out a half eaten package of Sweet Tarts.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Here, this is for you to buy!” he tells me, clearly pleased with himself. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“No thank you,” I say, “How much is it for one package of skittles?”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Ummm…let me think,” says Ryan tapping one finger on his bottom lip.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“One skittles is one skittles.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">We make the trade and both have exactly what we started with.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Ryan puts his hands on his hips and rocks back on his heels.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Thank you!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Ok!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Get out of my shop now!” he shouts cheerfully.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I move on to Joel’s shop.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He is sitting in the middle of his candy, merrily consuming his merchandise.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>When I stop in front of him he pushes a few wrappers behind him with his foot.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“You want to buy something, Mommy?” he asks. “You want to buy this ring? It is magical!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Joel holds out the plastic ring his ring pop used to be on.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It’s licked completely clean except for a small spot on the top of the ring which still looks sticky.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I gently push his hand out of my face and say, “No, thank you.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“How much for the Starbursts?” I ask.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><br />“One Starbursts is…..one Starbursts,” he answers.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’m not sure the boys are understanding this game.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I hand the basket of candy to Chris, so he can take over the shopping, then I sneak upstairs to fold the load of laundry I’ve been neglecting for three days.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>When I get back downstairs, the candy store game has ended in much the same way most games at our house end: in tears with a side of yelling.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">We decide that now would be a good time to watch Onward in the basement.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Allison pops three bags of popcorn, pours them in bowls and salts them.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I grab one of the bowls and a coke and head down.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The screen is already pulled down and the movie is cued.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Nicole sits in her spot by the armrest then comes Ryan, me, and Joel.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Allison is in her spot on the end of the sectional.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>When Chris arrives, the only spot left is the one over the crack between the two cushions.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He squeezes himself in between Joel and Allie.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The movie is cuter than I thought it would be.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We all enjoy it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>As usual, I cry at the touching moments, and my cold-hearted family makes fun of me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>During the last big action scene, Ryan points at Ian and yells, “Yeah!!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I like him!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I want to be him!!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">After the movie the girls go upstairs, probably to eat more candy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I start charging one of the playstation remotes and ask Chris to turn on the super hero game for the boys when it’s charged.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Then I head to my room to try to squeeze in a nap to make up for my short night.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I lie down but I’m interrupted first by Allison who wants to take a shower, then by Nicole who claims she found the last egg (she didn’t).<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Ryan comes in next, crying that Dad didn’t set up the superhero game.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I ask Allie to do it, and am just drifting off to sleep when Chris comes in to use the computer.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I finally fall asleep for an hour or so, but it’s one of those naps where I feel worse when I wake up than I did before.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Or course, that also might be the result of eating two Milky Ways and a 100 Grand for lunch.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I finally get the shower I’ve been threatening to take since yesterday, then Chris and I tell the kids it’s time for egg-bashing.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>(We’ve been doing the annual Easter egg bashing tournament for years.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It’s an increasingly well known fact that when two eggs are bashed together end to end, only one egg will crack.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The last person to have an un-cracked end of their egg wins.)</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">We video call my parents, my sister’s family, and Chris’ parents, and after some technical difficulties we are ready to begin.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We don’t usually do the tournament virtually, but since everyone is on their own at Easter this year we are trying it.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Nicole draws cards for everyone to decide initial placement, and I use an app on my phone to create the double elimination tournament.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The battle begins.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Sisters are pitted against brothers, mothers against sons, and husbands get taken out by wives.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It is a ruthless process.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Many eggs are sacrificed.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>In the end, I am victorious.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Sometimes there is a monetary prize for the egg champion, but this year I only win bragging rights.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvSEmBpkw-icBiNFLkuX_cwUdiFBNE32EoWwG_45KmLNwBYBzWrMAkT0a6kKJxMFOWNEUR13XuOTAvKWqX2Lb1shoaFrj551zVSLcXHpb_u0RhYvaIKOpBU4aiZ9Q23xKekKSiPnqvLgIK/s1600/IMG_0491.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvSEmBpkw-icBiNFLkuX_cwUdiFBNE32EoWwG_45KmLNwBYBzWrMAkT0a6kKJxMFOWNEUR13XuOTAvKWqX2Lb1shoaFrj551zVSLcXHpb_u0RhYvaIKOpBU4aiZ9Q23xKekKSiPnqvLgIK/s320/IMG_0491.HEIC" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">It’s already after 6 by the time the tournament is over.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I finally convince the boys to eat something other than candy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Joel has a banana and Ryan has a whole breakfast sandwich.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I spend a small amount of time trying to get them to agree to split both items, but upon remembering all the junk they ate today I decide it probably doesn’t really matter and give in to their demands.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I peek my head in the garage and ask Chris if he’s ready to do showers for the boys.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He says it will be a minute, so I do the dishes and wipe off counters.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I find piles of sugar from Sour Patch Kids on the table, and I feel nerds sticking to the bottoms of my socks.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The boys take their showers, and I get them ready for bed.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Tonight Ryan chooses the book “Bubble Trouble.” It’s about a baby who gets wafted away inside a bubble, and its alliterations and rhyming scheme make it fun to read.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I read it slowly and let the boys point out all their favorite parts of the pictures.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>After I finish, I ask Joel what story he wants, and he picks “Bubble Trouble” also.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I try to talk him out of it, but again, end up giving in to his demands.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But the second time I read it, I read twice as fast; that’ll show him.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The boys are exhausted from all the excitement and fall asleep within minutes.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I finish my chapter in the hall anyway before heading down to finish cleaning.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Nicole has already cleaned the entire main level when I get down.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She’s gathered and recounted the eggs (we had all 130 after all), put away the puzzles, and she even vacuumed for me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I still see quite a few nerds rolling around on the floors, but I’m so grateful for her efforts that I leave them.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Nicole and I watch two episodes of “Good Luck, Charlie” while Allison and Chris watch the first half of “Iron Man: 2.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We are all in bed by 10 o’clock, exhausted but happy.</span></div>
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Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519701220302400071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2614767874691033425.post-13668830423571020582020-04-10T11:30:00.000-07:002020-04-11T19:03:21.792-07:00Covid-19 Quarantine, Day 27<div class="p1" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><b>Wednesday, April 8th, 2020</b></span><br />
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It’s seven AM, and Ryan and Joel have been talking to each other in our room for a half an hour.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Chris and I tell them to be quiet, they (loudly) insist they <i>are</i> being quiet.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> There is a</span> whole lot of giggling (Ryan and Joel, not Chris and me). There is a little bit of wrestling (again Ryan and Joel).<span class="Apple-converted-space"> Then there is s</span>ome exasperated sighing (ok—that’s Chris and me).</div>
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Fortunately, 7 am seems an appropriate time to turn on the TV.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>When Ryan asks for the twelfth time if they can watch a show, I say, “Yes!”.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I turn on the TV, mash the ‘volume down’ button with my thumb until it’s barely audible, and hand the Firestick remote to Ryan because it’s the 8th, which is an even number, which means it’s “Ryan’s Day”.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>(“Ryan’s Day” means Ryan gets to do all the things.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He gets to pick the first show, he gets to pick where he sits at breakfast, he gets to pick whether he’s Mario or Luigi if they play Wii. He even gets the first bedtime story and can choose who has their teeth brushed first.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Don’t feel too sorry for Joel.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Tomorrow is the 9th.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Which is odd. Which means it’s Joel’s Day.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>You get the idea.)<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Anyway, I hand the remote to Ryan, and Joel doesn’t say a word because of my brilliant parenting methods, and Ryan deftly opens Netflix and selects whatever show he’s into.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Yeah.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The boys are four and have been effortlessly controlling both the Firestick and the Apple TV for ages.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I waffle between pride and shame.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> A</span>t this moment, I just feel relief, because I can go back to sleep for another hour or so.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I wake up again at 8, or maybe 8:30.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It’s really hard to get on a schedule when we have no schedule.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I see the boys have left our room, which means Nicole came to get them and took them downstairs to feed them first breakfast.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">By 8 am, Nicole has usually finished all of her distance learning for the day, made her bed, and has just enough time to polish her halo before quietly whisking the boys downstairs for a bowl of cereal, yogurt and gummy vitamins.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">When I roll into the kitchen, the boys are happily engaged in “Coco’s Kindergarten”.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Today that involves watching Super Why on PBS kids, but often it involves puzzles, games, reading books, and writing their names.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It’s a good thing someone has taken an interest in their education.</span><br />
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Upon seeing me, the boys immediately remember that they haven’t been fed for ages (15 minutes), and launch into requests for second breakfast.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I microwave them a sausage egg biscuit, and then make one for myself.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I usually try to start the day with a healthy protein shake, but some days are just more frozen meal heavy than others.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>This was one of those days.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">After breakfast, I set out for my morning walk.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Every morning, I take a 3.3 mile walk around the neighborhood.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I do it partly for exercise, partly for stress relief, and partly so I can be alone for 52 minutes and 30 seconds.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>All good reasons.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">When I’m walking, I allow myself to think of everything or nothing at all.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I swallow, and pay attention to whether my throat feels a bit sore. I wonder if I have covid-19 every time I cough. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I think about all the things I miss about our old normal and the things I’m finding I love about our new normal.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I step off the sidewalk and onto the street when someone approaches to comply with the 6 foot rule.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I watch out for dog poop, because even in the midst of a pandemic, some people are not responsible pet owners.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The boys are absolutely overjoyed to see me when I get home from my walk.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Mommy! You’re home!” they yell and bounce around with huge smiles on their faces.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“We can have marshmallows now?!” they scream.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">They aren’t actually overjoyed to see me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They are overjoyed because after I get back from my walk they are allowed to have ‘gouter’.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Gouter” is a French term I read about in a parenting book a while back.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I believe it actually means ‘afternoon snack,’ but in our house, it’s come to simply mean ‘dessert’.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Each kid can have gouter once a day, but once they have it they are no longer allowed to ask me for sweets every five minutes.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The girls are old pros at this.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The boys are still experiencing a learning curve.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Today, upon being informed they ate all the marshmallows yesterday, the boys both choose fruit snacks. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Nicole asks me if I want to play ‘PIG’, and because I have absolutely nothing else on my schedule for the day, I can.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We have two hoops on our culdesac.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The one across from our house is at regulation height, and the one by our drive way is at four-year-old height.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">We play on the regulation height hoop first, and I win because I’m still quite a bit taller than Nicole.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We then play on the short hoop, and she wins, because she has this shot called her ‘lucky shot’ that she hardly ever misses.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It’s straight back from the basket and out of my range.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It’s only in her range because she shoots it granny shot.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I even make farting noises when she bends down to throw it (just like Nate Andrews did for me during Odyssey of the Mind basketball breaks back in 6th grade).<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It makes her giggle, but it doesn’t make her miss.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We go back inside because it’s 85 degrees and we are weenies.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">It’s about eleven o’clock when Allison emerges downstairs for the first time.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Hey!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I have an oldest daughter!” I shout exuberantly, and then I stare at her bangs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Because they are defying gravity.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Don’t say anything about my bangs,” Allison says. “I had bedhead.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Nicole and I laugh mercilessly about Allison’s bangs, but at 12 she is already more mature than I’ll ever hope to be, so she acknowledges us with nothing but a smile and a slight eye roll.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She and her bangs make a bowl of Lucky Charms.</span><br />
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Allie and I spend the next hour or two trying to figure out all the different online platforms her teachers are using for distance learning.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>There is google classroom, clever, smart music, Kahn Academy and schoology just to name a few.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>A lot of great resources, but it’s hard to keep them all straight.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’m relieved when she decides to take a break.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Nicole is taking her turn at the computer, working on a not-required-by-me-or-the-school penguin report, when Chris emerges from his corner (of our bedroom) office for a break.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He looks at Nicole and taunts, “Hey, you want a pig rematch?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>You know…if you want to lose again!!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Nicole half-smiles and says, “Ok.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She pauses thoughtfully for a moment. “I’m not very good at trash talk.”</span><br />
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Nicole and Chris go outside, and I decide to give my sister in Washington a call.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>You’d think with both of our schedules opening wide up due to the shelter at home orders, we’d have plenty of time to talk.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But with seven kids between the two of us and nowhere for them to be but home, there is never a quiet moment.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Laura answers our FaceTime call.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She is holding my two and a half month old niece, Elsie, and my four year old niece, Nora, is hanging on her arm.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Nora, please stop playing with my hair!” she says before turning to the camera, “Sometimes, I just don’t want to be touched, you know?!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I laugh, not out of unkindness, but because I do know.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>That’s when my two year old nephew, Neal, sits on Laura’s other side, effectively covering her completely with children.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Ryan and Joel join the fray on our end, both wearing nothing but orange boxer briefs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We play a game of “guess which boy this is” where Nora and Laura attempt to guess whether Ryan or Joel is sitting next to me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They are right more than 50% of the time, so they aren’t just guessing.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Probably.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">This game is followed by “guess which boy is under the counter”.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Laura guesses Ryan and Nora guesses Joel.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They are both right.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Then comes a round of “guess which Claussen kid is under the counter” (it’s Allie) and finally a round of “guess which Claussen is under the counter” (it’s Uncle Chris). <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Fits of giggles ensue in both St. Louis and Seattle, and after we win the game “guess whose feet are sticking out from under a couch cushion” (Neal’s), both households have dissolved into states of chaos that are no longer conducive to FaceTiming.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">We say our good byes and good lucks, and the Claussen kids all decide to have lunch.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Fortunately, our weekly grocery pickup was yesterday, so we still have 4 of the 8 lunchables we bought.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I am grateful that lunch today is simple.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The boys eat their Oreos then decide they are full and should save the rest in the refrigerator.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>This is mostly because it’s one o’clock and thus time to play their superhero game.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Every day from one to three is playstation time, also known as mom’s rest time.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I like to use this time to read, nap, and not make snacks.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I’m eating lunch when Allison starts showing me videos of her and her classmates playing music for band.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I congratulate her on a job well done, then remember that she likes a boy who is not in band. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Well how do you know this boy if he is not in band or choir?” I ask.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“He’s in my pre-AP English class and pre-algebra.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He was also in 1st and 5th grade with me,” Allie responds nonchalantly.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Is he nice to you?” I ask.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“He’s nice to everyone,” she answers.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">This is more information than I have ever been given, so I head gleefully to the library to pull out the girls’ yearbooks.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Allison follows me into the room, but does not help me find the correct years.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I find them without her help, eventually, and yell up the stairs for Coco to come help me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Allison rolls her eyes at me for the second time today. “Mom.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>You are so desperate.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">“Wrong!” I answer indignantly.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Not desperate.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But I have all kinds of time right now.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>All kinds.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Nicole and I spend a few minutes cross referencing boys who appear in both Allie’s 1st and 5th grade classes, but after Allie denies liking any of them, we give up.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Really, I know the boy she likes is nice to everyone; that’s enough.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">We move on to Nicole.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She shows me the boy she had a crush on in kindergarten, and the boy who annoys her by talking out in class.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She shows me pictures of all the boys that like her.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She is either very popular or she tends to misread signals.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Maybe a little of both.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">But it’s not about the boys of course.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It’s about Allie, Nicole and I having a moment that feels normal.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We look through the old yearbooks, pausing to remember favorite teachers, friends who have moved and marvel at how much all the kids have changed.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I use my remaining hour and a half of quiet time to read and nap, then reluctantly tell the boys to turn off the playstation at 3 (ok, closer to 3:30).<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Allison and Nicole are outside playing with their homemade sprinkler.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Apparently Chris threw away our actual sprinkler, but Allie rigged one with the spray nozzle on the hose.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She used a lego and a rubber band to keep the water turned on, then propped the hose up in the yard using croquet wickets.</span><br />
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">All four kids enjoy an afternoon of running through the water, interrupted by nothing but a constant request for snacks.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“I am not a snack wench!” I mutter as I bustle around the kitchen slicing apples, putting goldfish in baggies, and looking, for all the world, exactly like a snack wench.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">When it becomes clear that snacks alone are not going to cut it, I pop some chicken nuggets and french fries in the oven (I told you this day was frozen food heavy), wash up some grapes and slice cucumbers onto four paper plates.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The kids eat their dinner on the porch while sitting on wet towels, their plates propped on their knees and their cheeks rosy from their time in the sun.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I take this moment of relative quietness to fold and put away the load of laundry that has been sitting on my bed since the morning.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I grade the two weeks of distance learning worksheets Nicole has finished.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I learn the rules of how to split words into syllables.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It matters if the first vowel is long or short; it matters whether there are one or two consonants.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I do not remember learning these things in grade school.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’m still not sure how to correctly split the word ‘orange’ into syllables.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I decide to give Nicole the benefit of the doubt and assume she’s right.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I move on to prefixes and suffixes, and find three whole pages where Nicole clearly did not understand the concepts.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I use a purple marker (not red, because according to the education class I took in college, red is discouraging) and highlight whole pages. I write “please redo” on the top of each one.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I grade the math pages.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I love math, but I don’t like grading math.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I take a moment to miss Nicole’s third grade teacher and respect the time it must take her to grade all 25 students’ work each day.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Luckily for me, Nicole is good at math.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It is mostly correct, with the exception of a page on subtraction with double regrouping.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Almost every problem is wrong.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I mark them all in purple and finish just as the kids start trickling back inside.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Joel and Ryan come first, and I tell them to put their towels and swimsuits in the washer.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Joel strips down right in the mudroom, then runs nakedly though the kitchen in his quest for clothes.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Nicole opens the door, looks at her brother, and says, “Ew.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Ryan comes downstairs a few minutes later, wearing his wet swimsuit over his underwear.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“This is not my swimsuit anymore it’s my shirt, and I want to wear it!” he announces.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I allow it, because it’s not that wet and twelve years of parenting have taught me to choose my battles.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Nicole looks at the pages of corrections she has, and is immediately overwhelmed.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“There is so much!” she whines, “I’m never going to finish it all!”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I tell her she doesn’t need to do it all at once.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I tell her that a lot of the English pages are the same concept and she will catch on quickly.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I do not tell her that she doesn’t have to correct it, because we all know that practice makes permanent, not perfect. I'd rather her not do the worksheets at all than do them incorrectly.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">She fixes one or two of the pages, then starts crying.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“It’s just so much, and I have so much to do!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I tell her again that she can take a break.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She doesn’t have to do it all at once.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But she is my daughter, and she does have to do it all at once.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I get it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I was the kind of kid who cried over schoolwork too.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I help the boys pick up the magic track they’ve been playing with and send them upstairs to get ready for bed.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Since they are no longer in school, they no longer take naps.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Which makes bedtime a thousand times easier.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Not easy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But easier.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I follow them up the stairs and ask, “Who has gone pee and put their pull-up on?”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I already know the answer (nobody), but I ask anyway.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The boys are hiding in the same place they always hide when it’s time for bed.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Under the desk in Chris’ corner (office).<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Sometimes I ask, “Where did the boys go? I can’t find them anywhere!” but tonight I’m not in the mood.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I tell the boys to get out from under the desk and go pee and put their pull ups on.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Ryan peeks his head out from behind the chair. “Hey, how did you see us?!” he asks, legitimately confused.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The boys finally get ready for bed. I brush their teeth and send them into their room to pick out stories.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Ryan chooses the Peter Rabbit pop-up book and Joel chooses a book that plays music.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We read Peter Rabbit first because it’s still Ryan’s day.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Both boys help paper Peter squeeze under the gate.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Both boys push and pull the tab that makes Mr. McGregor hoe his onions.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I stifle a yawn and try to push down the frustration I feel at reading Peter Rabbit for the 15th night in a row.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Why can’t Peter just be a good little rabbit like his sisters and pick blackberries down the lane?!</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The stories are finally over, and I tuck the boys under their blankets.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Yes, I tell them, I will leave your lamp on if you are quiet and have your heads on your pillows.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Yes, I tell them, I will read in the hall while you fall asleep.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I didn’t used to read in the hall while they fall asleep.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But they haven’t reached that moral milestone where they do the right thing whether or not anyone is watching.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>If I’m not watching, they talk and laugh and jump back and forth between their twin beds.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They make pillow and blanket forts and get all the stuffies out of the drawer and throw them at each other.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">So I sit on the floor in the hall, reading a book I enjoy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>When I reach the end of the chapter, I open safari on my phone and refresh the New York Times corona case map.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I scroll through the states and feel a small sense of relief when I see states who are managing to slow the spread of the virus.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I haven’t opened any other sites or posts related to covid-19 in over a week.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It causes too much stress, too much anxiety, too much fear.</span><br />
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">When I’m certain the boys are asleep, I go back downstairs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Nicole is happy again, having finished her corrections.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It turns out she does know how to double regroup in subtraction.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I wash dishes, load the dishwasher, and wipe off the counters.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I vacuum the floors, rehang the hand towel in the bathroom, close the toilet lid and flush for whichever little boy forgot to do it himself.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The girls eagerly ask if it’s time to watch “Good Luck, Charlie.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We started watching over spring break, when Chris and the boys were visiting his parents.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The three of us go down to the basement, and even though we have a strict eat-only-in-the-kitchen policy, I let them bring bowls of cheerios or goldfish with them.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We watch a couple episodes together.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>At one point, I make Allison pause the show for a minute because I can’t stop laughing when Nicole asks me if I used to be a cheerleader in high school.</span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">At nine o’clock, I head back upstairs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I tell the girls they can stay up until 10, but that they better not wake up the boys when they go to bed. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Chris and I finally have some time alone together.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He reads his comic books, and I read another couple chapters in my book.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I work on the crossword and check the corona virus case map one more time. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">It’s eleven-twenty pm when we switch off our lamps, eleven-thirty when the sliver of light coming from our cracked door widens to a boy-sized arc.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Ryan and Joel walk in, pillows, blankets and waters in hand.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>One of them closes the door, and they both lie down on the floor where they will sleep until morning.</span><br />
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<span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">My family is unfathomably lucky.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Chris and I can both work from home. We have groceries delivered once every two weeks from Costco and use Walmart pick-up once a week.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>So far, our immediate family, our parents, our sisters and their families, and our extended families are healthy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Staying home all day every day is inconvenient.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It’s a far cry from what we are used to.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It’s frustrating and overwhelming and everyone in our household has big emotions at one time or another.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But we will continue to stay home.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Even if it’s for another month, even if it’s for three more months.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Because not everyone <i>can</i> stay home.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>So many people are working to provide essential services, putting themselves and their families at risk, and all they are asking is that those of us who can stay home, do.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It’s such a small thing, really.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Just stay home.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>As much as you possibly can.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Because when we finally can come together again, we don’t want anyone to be missing.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>#WeStayHome.</span><br />
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Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519701220302400071noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2614767874691033425.post-87744499821021504182018-05-07T10:11:00.000-07:002018-05-07T10:11:41.796-07:00The Day There was Poop on My Porch
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<span class="s1">If you do not enjoy reading stories pertaining to bodily fluids, this blog post is not for you.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> <i> </i></span><i>I’m</i> actually not crazy about stories pertaining to bodily fluids, but since having twin boys, they seem to be my lot in life.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Some of you may remember my bodily fluid laden posts about potty training some five or six months ago.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>At the time, Ryan was taking to potty training like a champ while Joel showed little to no interest. Fast forward to now, and those crafty little guys have traded places.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Joel has been trained for months, and Ryan hasn’t been trained since mid January.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I have known I needed to re-double my efforts with Ryan for some time, but I simply haven’t had the energy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>After spending a good six weeks carefully training him and then his brother, I just didn’t feel like dealing with that kind of crap (pun intended) all over again.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">But summer, along with the boys’ third birthday, has brought new motivation.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I chose Monday as our triumphant return to potty training boot camp.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I gathered the supplies Sunday night:<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>towels, wash cloths and baby wipes for clean up and plenty of extra shorts.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I set them all neatly on the counter downstairs and went to bed, hopeful that since Ryan had been trained once before, it would be relatively painless (and relatively mess-less) this time around.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">In the morning I put Ryan in a pair of loose fitting shorts with no underwear (according to the potty training research I’ve done, it’s much more disconcerting to have an accident without underwear on, which supposedly leads to faster results).<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I made a big deal about how we were all finished wearing diapers during the day, and both boys marched down the stairs chanting ‘NO MORE DIAPERS!!’ at the tops of their little lungs.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Ryan had a small accident before we left to take the girls to school.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He helped clean up the floor and then to his delight and Nicole’s horror, nakedly chased his sister around the living room while she yelled, “Eeew, don’t touch me!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">After dropping the girls off at school, I drove to McDonald’s for my daily iced tea.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>If I had known how the rest of the morning was going to progress, I would have gotten something stronger…</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The whole way home from McDonald’s Joel repeatedly asked, “I see bug?” <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">Because with twin boys, apparently bugs are also my lot in life.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Even though it’s only May, it’s June bug season here in Missouri.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Which means our porch and garage are always littered with at least a few of the marble sized beetles lying on their backs, either dead or on their way to dead.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Ryan and Joel find this absolutely fascinating, and can spend good chunks of time running back and forth between the garage and porch, squatting and pointing and yelling, “I see bug!!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I saw an opportunity to use their affinity for bugs and took it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I told the boys that of course they could see the bugs, as long as Ryan went pee-pee in the potty first.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>To my astonishment, it actually worked!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Ryan sat on the potty, peed, and yelled, “I did it!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">We both clapped, high fived, and celebrated with a peanut m&m, because I am the kind of parent who uses non-organic, sugary bribes.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Then we ran outside to look at the bugs.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I was so pleased with the way boot camp was progressing, and the boys were so pleased with the dying June bugs that I thought I’d call my parents for a chat.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I figured they’d probably want to congratulate me on my parenting prowess, and also they are the only ones who are reliably up by 7:30 am.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I had barely passed the ‘hello how are you’ portion of our phone call when I noticed Joel wiggling and Ryan holding the back of his pants.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I knew that there was a chance we were about to have two different problems, but when I asked both boys if they had to go potty, it was Joel that came running inside the house with me.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I figured I’d take care of Joel first, and then go back and get Ryan, hopefully before the sh*t hit the fan, or in this case the pavement.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I sat Joel on the potty with my phone still balanced between my shoulder and my ear.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>In my haste to get back outside to Ryan, I failed to remind Joel to point down.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Pee arced past my line of vision and began dribbling down the wainscoting.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I determined that this was perhaps not the time to be congratulated on my parenting prowess and told my dad I’d call him later.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Because Ryan was outside on the porch by himself, I knew I’d have to clean up the mess later.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I hurried Joel back into his shorts, washed his hands, and ran to the front door to check on Ryan.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">By the time I got past the childproof knob and wrenched the door open, Ryan was gone.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I looked left and right and called his name hopefully, but there was no answer.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Then I looked down and saw a moderately sized pile of poo on the front walk.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I deduced that one of two things had happened.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Either A, an enemy had stolen my child and to add insult to injury, had left a pile of crap on my sidewalk, or B (and this was the option I found more likely), Ryan had produced the turd and was so shocked and ashamed when it fell out of his shorts that he went running to the back yard to hide.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Not surprisingly, scenario B was correct.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Joel and I found Ryan camped out in the upper level of the playhouse, a sheepish grin on his face.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">So the moral of this story is….</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Actually I’m not sure this story has a moral.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Maybe its purpose is just to put your Monday into perspective.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Because maybe you had to get up early to go back to work, or maybe you got stuck in traffic.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Maybe you had to yell at your kids twenty-five times to put on their shoes to go to school and maybe you had to say the words, “Please stop licking your brother’s hair.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But probably you don’t have pee dripping down your wainscoting and a moderately sized poo on your front walk.</span></div>
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<br />Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519701220302400071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2614767874691033425.post-51025660199441807632017-12-08T08:40:00.001-08:002022-02-25T13:18:37.827-08:00To The Parents of Well-Behaved Children<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="s1">My two and a half year old twin boys are good at a lot of things.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They can climb the tallest walls at the playground.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Slide down the biggest slides.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They can use real cups and eat chili without making (too big of) a mess.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They can buckle their own booster seats and clear their places after meals.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They take three hour naps and sleep twelve hours at night. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They take turns and share (most of the time), and they say please, thank you, and you’re welcome.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They show compassion for others; they are helpful.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They give excellent hugs and kisses, high fives and fist bumps.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My boys are good at a lot of things.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But they are not good at sitting quietly.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Recently, a Facebook friend posted about attending a story time with her well behaved child.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She was frustrated by the number of kids who were not doing what they were supposed to.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I know exactly what she is talking about, and it broke my heart.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Because those are <i>my</i> kids.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">We weren’t at that particular story time, but we’ve been to plenty of others.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And while the other children in attendance sat quietly with their parents, my boys ran full speed around the room.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>While the other kids sang along to the welcome song, mine tried to open doors that were meant to stay closed.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>During the first story, while the other kids told the librarian what cows say, mine climbed on chairs and giggled uproariously.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>During ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’, while the well behaved children sang along, mine let out unbridled war cries and took turns tackling each other.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My twins touched the felt board, over and over and over again, even though they were asked politely not to.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The boys were having a fabulous time, but I was in hell.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I grabbed at little wrists as they flew by in an attempt to keep little bodies from ricocheting around the room. I stood in front of doors, my hands guarding the handles.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I scooped little boys down off of chairs and tried to corral them in my lap repeatedly.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I sang along animatedly, hoping to get the boys interested in the activities.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I constantly worried whether it would be more distracting to go to the front and retrieve the boys from the felt board or to sit in the back and wait for them to get tired of it on their own.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>On those rare occasions that we made it until the end of story time, I tossed hurried apologies over my shoulder to the librarian before darting after whichever boy had already escaped into the lobby.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">More often than not, I left halfway through story time in tears, hauling sixty-five pounds of screaming, writhing toddlers evenly distributed under my arms.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>But for a while, I kept going back anyway. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">Because I desperately want my boys to enjoy story time.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>To be able to attend a music class.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I want them to learn to sit quietly and to become active listeners.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I thought the best way for that to happen was to keep practicing.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>To keep attending story times and music classes until we had more good minutes than bad.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">There were always one or two exceptionally kind parents at story time.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Fathers who told me that their sons were rowdy and loud and couldn’t sit still, just like mine, and that they can do all that and more now that they are in kindergarten.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Mothers who assured me that it was okay, that it would get better.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>That we were all parents and everybody understood what it was like.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">We were all parents, but I’m not convinced everybody understood what it was like.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Because I’ve been on the other side, the side with ‘well-behaved’ children, and I had no idea.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My girls sat through story times like champs and received nothing but praise in pre-school.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I could easily take them to the park by myself without worrying how I’d round them up and get them into the car when it was time to leave.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I may have thought the same things detailed on the Facebook post: that those poorly behaved children needed parents to set proper limits and insist on appropriate story time conduct so that it wasn’t ‘ruined’ for everyone else.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I may have wished those rowdy and loud children would stop going to the same story time as me, or stop going completely.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I may have thought those things, but I hope I didn’t.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Parents of well-behaved children, please be tolerant.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Please be kind.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Please understand that the frustration you feel when you see kids acting out is <i>nothing</i> compared to the frustration their parents feel.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Because parenting is never easy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It’s joyful, amusing, messy, daunting and gratifying, but never easy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Parenting is hard in all kinds of ways, and we each have our own struggles and successes.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">To the parents of well-behaved children: the ones whose kids sit and speak quietly, who follow the rules and happily hold your hand when you are in a parking lot,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I commend you.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Without your children leading quietly by example, pre-schools, story times and grocery stores would be absolute chaos.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Children’s Librarians would quit and the cost of day care would triple.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Your children will become the steady force that gently pushes society into order and helps the world change for the better.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">And to the parents of the rabble-rousers, the rapscallions, the imps.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>To the parents whose kids play hard, love hard, live hard, and live loud, all while in continuous motion, I commend you too.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Your children teach patience and add color to everything they touch (unfortunately sometimes literally).<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Your children will become the interminable force that rocks society to its core and helps the world change for the better.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">To all the parents: hang in there.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">As a wise woman once told me, “I can’t guarantee it will get easier, but I </span><i style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">can</i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> guarantee it will get different.”</span></div>
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</style>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519701220302400071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2614767874691033425.post-10825830737067812222017-12-07T11:02:00.002-08:002017-12-07T11:02:38.403-08:00How We Roll with Twins: Potty Training, Day 3<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Well, the moment we’ve all been waiting for arrived.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Last night, our Baby Bjorn potties were delivered!!</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">I was at work so I missed all the fun, but Chris filled me in when I got home.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Apparently both boys enjoyed carting their new potties around, and both enjoyed wearing the liners of their potties like hats (We’d like to thank Henry, of “Potty Time for Big Boys” for that particular party suggestion).</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">They even hefted them onto the couch and sat on them like kings, ruling their peons from their thrones.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">A good time was had by all.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I was eager to see how it would go with the new additions.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>As has become our routine, I took off the boys’ diapers when we got back from dropping the girls off at school.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Only this time, I just left them naked from the waist down.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">I’ve heard from several reliable sources that training can happen much faster with no clothes at all, and the evidence of Joel’s absolute terror upon finding a turd in his bed added proof to this theory.</span><span class="s1"></span></div>
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<span class="s1">I was willing to give it a try, though there were aspects of this that seemed risky.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Of course things could get messy, but it’s potty training.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Things are going to get messy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The more pressing problem to me was the boys’ already well honed desire to not wear clothes. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">The first thing they do when I put them to bed is take off their shirts (and sometimes their pants).<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The last time we went to the park, both boys had their socks, shoes, and shirts off within minutes.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>A week ago we attended a toddler music class in the one of the classiest St. Louis neighborhoods.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Not only were my boys running around tackling each other like miniature WWF stars, they were doing it half naked.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It seemed that condoning nakedness at home might be a slippery slope, but it was a risk I was willing to take.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">What a difference a day (plus nakedness and two tiny potties) can make.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Ryan had half an accident in the morning, but then no accidents the rest of the day.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He even had success with, ahem, number two.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>(I’ve never in my life been so excited to see poop).</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Joel was decidedly less interested in his potty, which is fine.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my ten years of parenting, it’s that you can lead a kid to the potty, but you can’t make him pee.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>There are few things worse than attempting to potty train a kid who doesn’t want to be trained.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It’s messy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Really messy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And stressful for the parent and the child.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">So the question is, where do we go from here?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I think if I were diligent and consistent with Ryan, he could likely be trained in the not too distant future.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>However, for us, the not too distant future includes a trip to Washington for two weeks at my parents’ house, where the floors are carpeted and the carpet is new.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I think for the sake of their home, and my sanity, we will keep Ryan in diapers (or maybe pull-ups) for the time being and encourage him to use the potty whenever possible.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We’ll let Joel go at his own pace as well, and encourage him if he shows interest.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Through the years, I’ve lost track of the number of people who have told me not to worry too much about potty training.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>That nobody’s kid goes off to kindergarten or college still wearing diapers.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And the mom part of me thinks, “Phew.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Thank goodness.”</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">But the mathematician part of me, the part that understands statistics, thinks, “Somewhere out there is a kid who will go off to kindergarten or college still wearing diapers.”</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">I just hope that kid isn’t mine.</span></div>
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</style>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519701220302400071noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2614767874691033425.post-58062371325174922102017-12-06T12:50:00.002-08:002017-12-06T20:14:08.342-08:00How We Roll with Twins: Potty Training, Day 2 (Pee-pocalypse)<div class="p1">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">The little potties have still not arrived, and I debated whether we were even going to attempt training today.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">But when we got back from taking the girls to school, Ryan asked to sit on the potty.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I figured I better capitalize on his interest, so I put both boys in big boy underwear and set the timer.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They both had wet diapers when I changed them, so I figured I was good for a couple of minutes while I ran some laundry upstairs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Unfortunately, I figured wrong.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">A sudden chorus of “uh-oh, wet! oh no!” rang out from the living room.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>By the time I got back downstairs, Ryan was hopping up in down in a small puddle and Joel was running around in circles shouting “Ryan, wet!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Oh no!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I took Ryan into the bathroom and cleaned him up.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>When I poked my head out to check on Joel, I saw him standing still looking down at his pants.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He looked up at me for a second and then said, “uh oh.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We both looked down.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>A small puddle was forming between his legs.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">What followed is a blur.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I actually can’t remember the details.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It just seemed that every where I looked, another little boy was peeing on my floor.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The floor was littered with small, wet, boxer briefs, and it felt like I had been cleaning and changing boys for hours. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">But then the oven timer went off, so it turns out the pee-spree had only lasted thirty minutes.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Thirty minutes I didn’t want to repeat any time soon.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Or well, ever.</span><br />
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<span class="s1">It was back in diapers for the boys, and back to the kitchen for me for a well deserved Coke.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We’ll start potty training again when the little potties come.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Probably.</span></div>
Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519701220302400071noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2614767874691033425.post-44579545371373861562017-12-06T12:29:00.000-08:002017-12-06T20:12:40.971-08:00How We Roll With Twins: Potty Training, Day 1<style type="text/css">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlwBjvZFm_aYimgbMX8DY__3eoKqKkh_uHHxkdbEvuLAZJ7NtNqCH-75_BF12J26O-mxpmclnp3EqF32BHz3WOrBDG4QCrolDGJjUGRIoKSDcB_Oluel8IVV-HpjO4jdqxE5tXRcdXDpTZ/s1600/boys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="921" data-original-width="1600" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlwBjvZFm_aYimgbMX8DY__3eoKqKkh_uHHxkdbEvuLAZJ7NtNqCH-75_BF12J26O-mxpmclnp3EqF32BHz3WOrBDG4QCrolDGJjUGRIoKSDcB_Oluel8IVV-HpjO4jdqxE5tXRcdXDpTZ/s320/boys.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1">Even though the potties from amazon have yet to arrive, I decided to go ahead with potty training this morning.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>After dropping the girls off at school, we came back home and I let the boys each pick out a pair of ‘big boy underwear’ to put on.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I gated off the great room in the hopes that accidents would be contained to the hard floor.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Then I set the oven timer for 30 minutes, the plan being that I’d have the boys sit on the potty every half hour to start getting used to it.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The first time the timer went off, things were going swimmingly.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>No accidents, and Ryan came with me happily to give it a try.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“I on da potty!” he announced loudly, his legs swinging back and forth over the sides of the toilet.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">It was then that I noticed something that was bound to become a problem sooner or later.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I am no expert in potty training, or in physics, but I know just enough about boy parts and gravity to deduce that when little boys sit on the potty, their pee is not going to go where I want it to naturally.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>With little girls, you have them lean forward a little, and I’m guessing there is some sort or trick with boys too (or maybe not, and that is why all my friends with boys say their bathroom floors are perpetually covered in urine). For now, I don’t have to worry about it because the point is just for them to sit on the potty and get used to it.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Anyway, we sang the ABCs, twice, and then Ryan and I both clapped on account of him being such a good boy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I helped him off, washed his hands, and gave him his M&M reward for sitting on the potty.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I asked Joel if <i>he</i> was ready to sit on the potty.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He side eyed me and scowled at the same time.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“No.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>No potty.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I re-set the oven timer and did some dishes while the boys watched Kung Fu Panda.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>When I turned off the water, I heard a noise that sounded alarmingly like splashing.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I found Ryan, sitting in a puddle, slapping his hands in it (?!?!).<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Water!” he shouted, gleefully.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I explained that it wasn’t water and that he had a pee-pee accident.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Once he was aware of this, he was happy to help clean up and put on clean pants.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Apparently all the cleaning made him a bit peckish, because then he asked to sit on the potty again and delightedly ate another M&M.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Joel saw him eating the M&M, and asked for one.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I told him of course he could have one.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He’d just have to sit on the potty first.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“No.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>No potty,” he replied decisively.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">After several more trips to sit on the potty (Ryan), two accidents during snack time (Ryan <i>and</i> Joel), Ryan was definitely catching on to the whole M&M thing.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>So much so that he visited the potty three times in the span of 2 minutes.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>That’s when I started making him sit for longer amounts of time than just the ABC song.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Not so ironically, that’s also when he stopped asking to go every 30 seconds.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">It was minutes later that a little boy came over to me and asked to sit on the potty.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I looked carefully at his face, because I thought the little boy would be Ryan, but it was in fact Joel.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I checked.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Twice.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And just like that, I had two boys willing to sit on the potty (in exchange for chocolate bribes).</span></div>
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<span class="s1">That was plenty of success for one day.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Not wanting to push my luck, I stuck both boys back in diapers and put them down for a nap.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519701220302400071noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2614767874691033425.post-46726922663249155742017-12-05T10:04:00.000-08:002017-12-05T12:25:56.069-08:00How We Roll With Twins: Potty Training, Making the Decision To Train<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Potty training experts agree that you should not attempt to potty train a child until they show signs of readiness.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">These include telling a parent when they are wet or dirty, showing interest in bathroom habits, being able to sit quietly for a few minutes, and the ability to pull their pants up and down.</span><br />
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<span class="s1">The boys are almost two and a half, so I’ve been on the lookout for these signs of readiness for a while now.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> One morning I</span> found them both buck naked in their cribs with their (thankfully just wet) diapers strewn on the floor, and I thought to myself, "Pants off.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Check."</span></div>
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<span class="s1">A couple of days later, I went to get them from their cribs and Ryan pronounced happily, “I steen-ty!” <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">Awareness (and pride) of soiled diapers?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Check.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Over the next weeks, the boys were more often naked in their cribs than not, and I was beginning to think it might be time to start training, if for no other reason than to avoid washing sheets every day.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">But the real push to potty train came when I heard the boys screaming in terror after I put them down for a nap.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I rushed up, thinking someone was hurt.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>When I opened the door, Joel was naked and pointing at his blanket yelling, “blankie wet!!!!!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">It turned out blankie <i>had</i> been defiled, but it wasn’t wet.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Joel and I both turned to look in his crib at the same time.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Sitting just inches from his bare feet, on top of his Pottery Barn Kids whale sheets, were two medium sized turds.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Joel backed away and started crying again, “NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I’ve never read that fear of one’s own turds is a sign of readiness for potty training, but it probably is.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I went out and purchased two packs of tiny boxer briefs and a training seat, and loaded up on potty books and movies from the library.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My plan was to read them the books and show them the movies on Sunday and start the actual training on Monday. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">Allie and Coco were definitely on board to get this whole potty train moving.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Mostly because years ago when potty training the boys was nowhere on my radar, I may have said something like, “We are definitely not getting a cat before the boys are potty trained.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>What Allie and Coco heard was, “We will definitely get a cat the second the boys no longer need diapers.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Anyway, the girls were more than happy to help speed things along.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Allie read the twins one of the books while they ate breakfast.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Unfortunately, Curious George was on the TV behind her, and the boys spent a lot more time yelling, “Nooo,” and shooing her away with their hands than they did listening about Henry, the little boy who discovered his potty was not a fish bowl or a hat or a bird bath.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">We all sat in the basement and watched ‘The Potty Song’ followed by the “The Potty Movie,” and the girls and I wondered why Henry, who was able to brush his teeth, get dressed, put on his shoes and do calculus, was not yet able to use the potty.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">One thing I did learn from all the books and movies was that it seemed everybody used those little potties and not the seat that just sits on the big potty.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>With all of my kids, I’ve hoped and hoped that we wouldn’t need to use the little potty (because they’re gross), but with all my kids we’ve ended up using it, at least at first.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>So I caved, and ordered two tiny potties from amazon prime.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">That night, I decided to check on the boys over the video monitor one last time before I went to bed.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Joel was sleeping peacefully with his legs tucked under him and his blanket covering his back.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Ryan was also sleeping peacefully with his legs tucked under him and bum in the air.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Umm, Chris?” I nudged him.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“Is that a crack?” <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">Pants off?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Double check.</span></div>
Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519701220302400071noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2614767874691033425.post-8445265497833394332017-11-25T14:00:00.000-08:002017-11-25T18:32:04.838-08:00Yellow Means Speed Up<div class="p1">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOXQcjdj5amGGleMzZgV4pdXAp9AjCBaW3rcw9rNAAL7lt3sKIv6-FZsPHCvD3AuVQDbDjX1IVkVVejtqrgoQAmsJCbbLZ6rhZO62XxJMsX62V-DRNWeaW3I38UpkjWj6AdimKkXAUMqWg/s1600/2017-11-21+16.13.19.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1284" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOXQcjdj5amGGleMzZgV4pdXAp9AjCBaW3rcw9rNAAL7lt3sKIv6-FZsPHCvD3AuVQDbDjX1IVkVVejtqrgoQAmsJCbbLZ6rhZO62XxJMsX62V-DRNWeaW3I38UpkjWj6AdimKkXAUMqWg/s320/2017-11-21+16.13.19.jpg" width="256" /></a></div>
There was a time that I was embarrassed to call my maternal grandmother, ‘Mumsy.’ I was neither British nor 5 years old, and the name felt awkward and juvenile. Of course, I was in my early teens, so <i>I </i>was awkward and juvenile.<br />
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<span class="s1">In retrospect, the name Davalee Bohnenkamp chose to have her grandchildren call her could not have been more fitting.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Though she wasn’t British, there was a certain properness about her.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>A stern-ness that inspired children such as myself to sit up straight, keep our elbows off the table.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Be seen and not heard. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">My earliest memories of my grandmother are not really of her at all.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>They are of epic phone calls between my mother and her, punctuated by visits where Mumsy and Mom would work on extensive sewing projects or redecorate a room.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>There were ornaments every December accompanied by extravagant, ruffled Christmas dresses that required scratchy lace tights.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ruffled dresses, scratchy tights.</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">Every other summer, and the occasional Christmas, my family would fly from Seattle to Missouri to visit.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Mumsy’s home was immaculate.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>By the time I can remember, her children had grown and left, and she had been widowed for years.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It was perhaps the absence of children and men that allowed her home to become what it was: a rich haven of floral prints, delicate accents, and ornate oil paintings.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">My sister and I would tiptoe from pristine room to pristine room, enjoying the air conditioning that blasted away the sticky heat of a midwest summer.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We snooped through the forgotten belongings of our mother and aunt in their childhood room or played monopoly with our cousin.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We watched our uncles play tennis on the courts behind the house and climbed the low hanging branches of the juniper tree at the edge of the driveway.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Christmases with Mumsy were lively affairs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The whole family would gather on Christmas Eve for food and conversation.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The night culminated in the shuffle shot gift exchange, where we all competed for the best items, and one of my uncles would inevitably go home with a pink scarf or baking tins.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The party would commence again on Christmas morning, when presents were opened and everybody could hunt for the pickle ornament hidden on the tree.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The prize for finding it was provided by Mumsy, and it would range from five dollars to one hundred, so I’ve heard.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The honorable distinction of finding the pickle was never mine.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The summer of my 16th birthday, Mumsy invited my friend and I to her house for a tennis camp with my Uncle Marvin.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She had witnessed one of our abysmal losses on the courts, and where our coaches saw mediocrity, she saw potential.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Also, no one in <i>her</i> family had ever been abysmal at tennis, and damned if she was going to let that start with me.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Though our days began and ended on the courts, the time in the middle was our own.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Mumsy would work the daily jumble on scratch paper so that I could do it too, and we’d give each other hints on words the other struggled with.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We did crossword puzzles without the help of the internet, the table littered with encyclopedias, the dictionary, and the almanac. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">In the evenings, Mumsy would take us out to dinner somewhere in Park Hills or Farmington.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I remember her racing through a yellow light on the way saying, “Now, your driver’s ed teachers and your mothers won’t tell you this, but yellow means speed up!”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">One Friday night, we returned from dinner to find traffic backed up all the way down Main Street.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Mumsy explained the-foreign-to-us concept of cruising, where the youth of town would drive from one end of the strip to the other blaring music, showing off their cars, and checking each other out.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>To further enlighten us, she rolled down all the windows in her white Chevy Malibu and turned up the classical music until the speakers shook.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The three of us crept through main street, our heads thrown back in laughter as teenagers peered wide-eyed into our car with expressions of shock and amusement.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Graduation at Pacific University, Oregon</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">I went to graduate school an hour and a half away from Mumsy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She and Mom came with me to help me get settled.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I had purchased an entertainment center from Sauder.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It was the kind that came in a big, heavy box and required fourteen hours of assembly if you were an engineer, more if you were not.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We opened the boxes and arranged the pieces neatly on the floor, ready to begin.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Mumsy swiped up the instruction booklet and began to read, “Place part A into part B, and use part C to secure.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We muddled through for a while before I asked to see the instructions for myself.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Mumsy peered out over the top of the pages, her eyebrows raised.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“You don’t need to see them, because I am telling you what they say.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Now, just connect parts F and G using four part Ls.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Throughout grad school, I spent the occasional weekend with Mumsy, braving the curvy backroad drive from Rolla to Park Hills in my ’89 Cabriolet.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We still did the jumbles and the crosswords.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We spoke about books we’d read, current events, and the topics of her most recent Monday Club.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I’d pour over old albums, marveling at the pictures of Mumsy as a young woman and watching my mom, aunt and uncles grow up through the pages.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Mumsy regaled me with stories from the past and present.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She told me about the time the Jehovah Witnesses showed up at her door wanting to speak to her about religion. She invited them in for tea and listened to all they had to say.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Then she brought out her bible and her book of Morman and began sharing <i>her</i> thoughts on various religions.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She laughed gleefully when she told me, “As keen as they were to come into my house and tell me what to believe, they sure didn’t like it happening to them!”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It was probably the only time Jehovah Witnesses have been seen <i>running</i> away from a house.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Mumsy told me about meeting her husband, Marvin.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Their first date was Mumsy’s high school play.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She acted the lead while Marvin watched on from the audience.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">She told me about the time she was at the theatre seated behind a man and a woman.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The couple kept leaning together, making it impossible for Mumsy to see.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>“I blew gently on their necks so that they felt just a little draft and learned not to lean in that way,” she said, her eyes sparkling.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">One of my favorite pictures is of Mumsy brushing my mom’s hair.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My mother was three or four years old at the time, neatly clothed in a dress and patent leather shoes and seated on the kitchen counter, her legs dangling down.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Mumsy stood behind her, radiant, with hair and make up already complete. It could have been a poster for the fifties.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I know there was a time when Mumsy wore thin-waisted dresses, cooked elaborate meals and spent her days keeping children and keeping house. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br />
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But to me, Mumsy was Alfred Dunner pant suits and Diet Coke with a straw.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Little Debbies for dinner and omelettes from the Schwann’s man for breakfast.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She had email and online banking, and she played and won thousands of Spider Solitaire games, keeping track of the numbers of the few games she couldn’t solve.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She owned and actually used an iPad and a Wii at the age of 80.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She played ping pong at 85.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She was as likely to spend an afternoon at the symphony as she was to spend it watching a Cardinals’ game.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="s1"></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mumsy at Greg's baseball game.</td></tr>
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<span class="s1"><br />We call aging, ‘growing old’, but it isn’t growing so much as it is becoming smaller.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We become more stooped, less energetic.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We see less, hear less, and remember less.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We become less able to care for ourselves. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">Fortunately, with the enormous support of her children and caregivers, Mumsy was able to spend most of her life at her home, which she designed herself, right down to the front door with it’s door knob smack dab in the center.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She lived with her two cats, Putty-Tat and Tinker Bell, who enjoyed the kind of lives most cats can only dream of.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Living the good life.</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">When pneumonia and an infection made it impossible to keep Mumsy at home any longer, her children made the difficult decision to move her to Parc Provence, an assisted care facility.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It is the kind of place that at one point, Mumsy would have appreciated.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It’s halls are adorned with handsome wood wainscoting, elaborate crystal chandeliers, and enormous golden bird cages.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">When I visited Mumsy at Parc Provence, it was so saturated with old people in wheel chairs that I had a hard time picking out which one was her.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Her head was slumped, her back curved, her ankles swollen.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Her cheeks were hollow, and the gleam in her eyes was gone.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>When I spoke to her, she seemed unable to understand what I was saying, and I couldn’t understand what she said in reply.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">My mother and I sat on either side of her while one of the workers played guitar and sang.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We occasionally tried to engage her in conversation, but her head would droop down toward her chest and her eyes would close in sleep.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Then Nathan, a young, attractive, care giver, walked by.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>He cocked his head to one side, smiled, and waved at Mumsy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She smiled right back and lifted her hand in greeting.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I, on seeing she had awoken, asked Mumsy if she was enjoying the music.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Her head dropped down toward her chest.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Her eyes closed in sleep.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My mother and I exchanged a glance.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Twenty minutes later, when Mumsy was still sleeping, we decided to leave and let her rest.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>As we said good bye to one of the workers, I glanced back.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>There was Mumsy, sitting erect in her chair, listening to the music with the hint of a smile on her face.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>My 91 year old grandmother had feigned sleep to get rid of us. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span class="s1">I’d have been offended except that I could <i>see</i> her again.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The woman who blew on the necks of strangers, who befuddled Jehovah Witnesses.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>The woman who rolled down her windows, blasted classical music, and laughed out loud for all the world to hear.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Mumsy was mischievous and proud.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Generous with her time and with her money.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She was clever, well spoken and well read. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>She surrounded herself with the people and things that she loved.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I count myself fortunate to have known her, and to have learned by her example that life was meant to be <i>lived</i>.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqc6oE3-2Cga00h-iJyGR_RDrxsgloJ79WhJeVjso1w45Hw-wnjRHx89SdEw_qp8A_BRLjHE5U8X3A5Br7T7i3sHW5wKVoNoyAc9HVKpHdkzoOlgd-oy_HapnDLbB9UypFdqCPY51zAVL6/s1600/IMG_8975.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="813" data-original-width="1600" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqc6oE3-2Cga00h-iJyGR_RDrxsgloJ79WhJeVjso1w45Hw-wnjRHx89SdEw_qp8A_BRLjHE5U8X3A5Br7T7i3sHW5wKVoNoyAc9HVKpHdkzoOlgd-oy_HapnDLbB9UypFdqCPY51zAVL6/s320/IMG_8975.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Living big.</td></tr>
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Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519701220302400071noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2614767874691033425.post-34973049756483514542017-08-20T14:06:00.000-07:002017-08-20T14:07:00.485-07:00The Kinda-Sorta Minimalist's Guide to Baby's First Six Months<br />
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I can’t claim to be an expert in what to buy for baby raising. If they hand out awards for that, we were certainly neither informed nor nominated. However, we had Allison in a tiny one bedroom apartment for her first 9 months, and I’m me, so we were more careful than most about what we bought and kept during that time. Here's a pretty exhaustive list of what we found necessary for baby.<br />
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TRANSPORTATION:<br />
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The thing you will not be allowed to leave the hospital without is, of course, the car seat. I recommend a <b>travel system</b> that includes a pumpkin seat, a base, and a stroller. Yes, I know the baby can only fit in it for about 9 months and then you’ll have to get a different one. But the benefits are huge. Mainly, when baby falls asleep in the car or stroller, you can just lift him in the seat and plop him down in your place of choice in the house. So worth it. Trust me. [Also they are a huge help when you are running errands and making multiple stops--no strapping baby in and out all the time). The travel systems can be pricey, but they make spectacular shower gifts. So go ahead, do some research and register for the one you want. Or, you can always check craigslist. The first system we got was used and only $40 for the whole shebang. However, check the dates. The typical life of a car seat is seven years, which is something to think about if you suspect baby will be getting a sibling or two at some point.<br />
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I also recommend getting a ‘<b>bundle-me</b>’ for your pumpkin seat. It’s a blanket that straps into the car seat and keeps baby nice and cozy no matter what he is wearing. This is clearly not a necessity, but I was so happy to have mine with Nicole. You don’t have to worry about bulky coats or snow suits (which look pretty uncomfortable and are actually unsafe in a carseat), and if baby spits up or leaks any other undesirable fluids, you only need to wash the bundle me, not the whole car seat cover.<br />
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The final thing I recommend in the transportation department is a <b>baby carrier</b>. The Ergo is fabulous, as it allows you to carry kids weighing up to 40 lbs on your back. HAHAHAHA. As if any sane parent wants to carry their 40 lb kid on their back. The ridiculous weight limit aside, the Ergo is very comfortable for both parent and child, and it works as a front or back carrier. My one complaint is that I didn’t care for it with the infant insert (we had a basic front carrier I preferred when the girls were very little). Try some different carriers on; strap a 20 lb weight in them (or a friend’s baby if you have one accessible). Try walking around, vacuuming, doing dishes, and bouncing on the balls of your feet while singing nursery rhymes. And try putting it on when you are tired--maybe 4 am or so. This is a valuable part of training for parents-to-be and will help you select the correct carrier for your family.<br />
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THE NURSERY:<br />
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I use the term ‘nursery’ loosely of course, as it doesn’t have to mean an entire room devoted to baby. But it should include somewhere for baby to sleep, be changed and dressed, and somewhere to store all of baby’s clothing, accessories, and any additional paraphernalia. I use the phrase ‘additional paraphernalia’ in loo of “baby’s multitude of crap’ because it sounds nicer. But let’s not sugar coat it. Baby will have more things than you and your partner combined. The smaller the person, the more stuff they have. It’s probably Newton’s fourth law or something. Anyway, if you can swing it, it’s nice to have an entire room devoted to your newest family member.<br />
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You will probably want a crib or a pac n’ play. Even if you think you will co-sleep, it’s nice to have a safe place you can put your baby while you cook dinner, open mail, or scream into a pillow when nothing seems to be making baby happy. You should probably also get a couple of sheets for it and a waterproof pad or two, you know, just in case your baby isn’t quite as fluid free as you may hope. I really liked having a crib and a pac n play. A small pac n’ play is nice for the first few months because you can set it up in your room for easy access to the baby during its multiple night wakings or in the living area as a place to change baby without walking all the way to the nursery. If your house is all one level, you may not see the perks of this. But add in sleep and sanity deprivation and your perception of ‘so far away’ may change.<br />
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I’d buy a <b>crib</b> that works for a boy or a girl in case mini-you has siblings. You can always make it gender-cutesy if you wish with sheets/bumper pads etc. If I could do it again, I’d pick a crib that can transition to a toddler bed. From what I’ve heard, the move from crib to big-kid bed goes much more smoothly if it is, in fact, the same bed.<br />
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For the <b>pac n’ play</b>, I know there are a ton of options out there. They have ones in adorable girl or boy prints, ones with ruffles, ones with lights and sounds and mobiles, and ones with automatic diaper changers and wine dispensers. Wait, no, those last two were just wishful thinking. Honestly, I’d go as simple as possible. Sure, get one that’s cute and that folds easily (they probably all do now). But all the extras tend to make it hard to store, and we found we didn’t use them much anyway. I do like the bassinet/changer features; we used them a lot when the kids were wee.<br />
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***Another less expensive option is to just put a mattress on the floor from the time the baby first comes home. The idea is that there will never be a need to transition to ‘big kid’ bed because the baby has been sleeping in one all along (just make sure the room is baby-proofed). And with the wisdom that comes from transitioning two kids to big kid beds, let me tell you, not having that transition would be amazing. In fact, after finally getting Nicole to stay in her big girl bed at night, I swore I would do the mattress on the floor method if we ever had a third child. But then children three and four arrived simultaneously, and what better way to spend a boatload of money than to buy not just one crib, but two?! I’m really looking forward to transitioning two at once [please note the sarcasm]. But if I ever have a 5th kid—no crib for sure.<br />
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As for a place to change baby and keep all the clothes and such, I suggest a regular <b>dresser</b> with nice deep drawers. Get some drawer organizers to help keep all that itty bitty clothing neat and visible. Ikea has some great organizers and relatively cheap dressers. <br />
I really like the idea of a regular dresser because you can attach a <b>changing pad</b> to it when baby is young, and it will be a more useable piece of furniture in the future. Also, you can pick a height for the dresser that’s comfortable for you to change the baby on. I recommend using a <b>basket</b> or something basket-like to keep all of your diapering essentials together and accessible. We’ve always had a basket on top of the dresser with diapers and wipes (not sure what all you need with cloth-diapering if you’re going that route), and a smaller bin for diaper cream, a nasal aspirator, and any medications or special creams you may need at any given time.<br />
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Another item for the nursery that is not a necessity, but can feel a lot like one, is a <b>rocking chair</b>. We didn’t get one before we had Allie, but I sent Chris out to buy one the day after we brought her home from the hospital. I kid you not. Get one. Get one used. Borrow one from a friend. Steal one from an enemy. But get one. You can thank me at 3 am when you are rocking a snugly baby that will only sleep in your arms. Just don’t call me to thank me. I will be sleeping.<br />
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<br />
ACCESSORIES<br />
<br />
There are roughly eight thousand accessories available for baby. I’m estimating of course, but just check your local Babies R Us if you need confirmation. We didn’t try all of them, but I have a few must-have items and a few don’t-need items that I can share here.<br />
<br />
The must haves include burp-cloths, bibs, and receiving blankets or swaddling blankets. For <b>burp-cloths</b>, I recommend the tri-fold cloth diapers. You can make them cute by sewing strips of fabric on either end, or just leave them white. Either way, they are hands down the best for wiping up spit up, protecting your shoulder (if you are into preserving your clothing and not changing three times a day), and can even double as a blankie in a pinch. I wore one over my left shoulder for three months straight after having Allison, and even longer when we had Nicole. One pack of 6 should suffice.<br />
<br />
A three pack of <b>drool bibs</b> is a good place to start. If your baby is prone to spitting up and large amounts of drool, you may need a second pack, but for starters three should be fine. I like the ones from Carter’s. They are cloth covered and waterproof, but don’t feel overly stiff. They also make them with a snap which is important once baby figures out how to rip off the velcro ones.<br />
<br />
As for <b>receiving blankets</b> or <b>swaddling blankets</b>, I think three or four should be adequate. Actually, I’d probably recommend a three or four pack of receiving blankets in addition to two swaddling blankets. The receiving blankets are great to keep in your diaper bag as a light weight blanket or a place to put baby at friends’ houses. The swaddling blankets, I’m convinced, make for much easier nap times. The nurses will make perfect baby burritos with simple receiving blankets, but Chris and I found that we were gloriously inept at this most coveted of skills. Enter swaddling blankets. They are a fool proof way to keep baby’s arms and legs from flailing inconveniently, thus allowing for more peaceful sleep for baby (and for you!).<br />
<br />
One accessory that I think you can definitely forgo if you are tight on space (or even if you aren’t) is the baby bathtub. That’s what sinks are for. The baby tubs are big and just one more thing to clean. When baby outgrows the sink, you can move him directly to the bath tub. Sure, it’s a little hard on your back, but babies are small and quite quick to clean. Ten minutes. Tops. All this talk of baby baths has reminded me of a couple other things you may want: hooded towels and baby wash cloths. We used the baby wash cloths minimally (just for sponge baths), but we still use hooded towels for the girls (albeit bigger ones). We just have one for each kid and have never had an issue, but you may want two depending on how often you do baths.<br />
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<br />
CLOTHING:<br />
<br />
It is tempting to go out and buy every cute little outfit you see for baby. They are just so little. And so cute. In reality, our babies lived in a few basic pieces. Sure, they had some special outfits in each size, but these really ended up being just for pictures, holidays or the occasional visit with great-grand parents. Likely, baby’s grandparents and great grandparents will provide such outfits, and you will not have to buy anything special. But go ahead and get a couple if you must. After all, they are just so little. And so cute.<br />
<br />
Keep in mind that overalls, button down shirts, slacks, or little sweaters are often not the easiest clothes to put on baby. Or take off. And it’s not as easy as you might think to dress a baby. All those uncontrolled limbs flailing about. The giant head. The feeling that you might break their little arms as you shove them into long sleeves. Here are the basics that I suggest for babies up to 6 months old (and rather than repeat myself over and over, all of these things you can get at Carter’s. They are well made, relatively inexpensive (watch for sales), and wash well):<br />
<br />
<b>1 Pack of Newborn size side snap long sleeve tees w/hand covers</b> <br />
The side snap is for before baby’s belly button heals, the hand covers are so you don’t have to worry about baby scratching himself with the long fingernails you are too afraid to clip. Both of our girls basically lived in these and diapers--no pants--their first week or so.<br />
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<b>1 5-Pack of White Short-sleeve onesies in each size (NB, 3 months, 6 months)</b><br />
<br />
<b>4 or 5 Footie Pajamas in each size (NB, 3 months, 6 months)</b><br />
Bonus points if you find zip up ones. They are far easier for middle of the night diaper changes. You may need more or less depending on how messy your particular baby is. The rule in the Claussen household is that there is no need to change baby’s clothes unless they have spit-up or some other bodily fluid on them. Up until 6 months, footie pjs can be worn day or night, or day AND night. Our kids wore them 24-7 until about 9 months (don’t judge!). Not only are they versatile, but the ‘footie’ part keeps you from having to worry about trimming baby’s toenails and about socks that won’t stay on anyway. <br />
<br />
<b>2-Pack Soft Elastic Waist Pants with 5-Pack Coordinating Onesies</b><br />
Just in case you feel baby should be more ‘dressed’ than footie pjs, these are nice for easy and comfortable everyday wear.<br />
<br />
<b>1 or 2 Hats</b> <br />
The hospital will likely give you one, and you may want one or two more since babies look adorable in hats. Also, if you take baby outside and he doesn’t have a hat on, every women over 65 in a five mile radius will ask why ‘mommy didn’t put a hat on that poor baby.’ <br />
<br />
<b>Socks</b><br />
Maybe. Some parents like them. We had little use for them until the kids were closer to walking, as the best way to get them to stay on is by covering them up with shoes. We had little use for shoes until the kids were close to walking as well, and the ones we loved were Robeez. They are adorable and they stay on. Score.<br />
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<br />
TOILETRIES<br />
<br />
This is a nice short section, as babies are pretty low maintenance when it comes to skin, nail, and hair products. I’d suggest a <b>baby bath soap and shampoo</b> in one. We had one medium bottle of Johnson and Johnson’s baby soap and shampoo that lasted us a good 12 months, and was all we ever needed to keep baby clean. A good <b>diaper cream</b> is crucial; we like Desitin, but I suspect you can find one that you will like just as well. You may want a bottle of baby oil or baby oil gel in case of cradle cap, but you could also wait and see what your doctor recommends if the problem arises. You may want to buy baby lotions, but babies are so soft in general that it seems unnecessary. If your baby develops eczema or some other common skin condition, your doctor will likely recommend something specific, and you can buy it then. You will want to have a <b>gum brush</b> (they go on your finger to brush baby’s gums and first teeth--no toothpaste needed), a <b>comb</b>, <b>finger nail clippers</b> (I suggest one with a removable guard), a <b>thermometer</b> (I think it’s worth it to get one that is as fast and unobtrusive as possible), and a <b>nasal aspirator</b> (the hospital will probably give you one that is better than one any amount of money can buy).<br />
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<br />
FEEDING/NURSING:<br />
<br />
For the first five or six months, your baby will eat almost exclusively breast milk or formula. Some doctors seem to recommend you start feeding your baby solids by four months, but even if you go that route you will just need one or two little <b>baby bowls</b> and a couple of <b>baby spoons</b>. Easy peasy.<br />
<br />
If nursing works out for you, and you are not comfortable nursing without a cover, I suggest a ‘<b>hooter hider</b>.’ Babies are small, but they are quite adept at exposing you at inopportune moments during feedings. I preferred mine to a regular blanket because I lacked the coordination (and extra hands) necessary to keep myself covered and get the baby latched on at the same time. I also suggest a <b>lanolin based product</b> (like Lanisoh) for the first few weeks. <br />
<br />
If you will be bottle feeding, you will need 6 to 8 <b>bottles</b>, a fabulous <b>pump</b> (if you are planning on using breastmilk), and a <b>bottle brush and/or a bottle cleaner insert</b> for your dishwasher. I feel guilty even admitting this, but for the girls, we loved the Playtex bottle liner system. Not fabulous for the environment, but oh so very convenient for parents. However, for the boys, who were exclusively bottle fed, we opted for the Avent natural bottles. If baby is not picky, I’d use a bottle system with the fewest number of parts per bottle. All those dishes really add up. If you intend to use <b>formula</b>, I’d find one your baby tolerates, and stick to it. You’ll probably get plenty of samples from the hospital and in the mail.<br />
<br />
I would forgo the highchair if you are tight on space. We got a sassy seat that clipped to the table, and that is all we used until the kids were big enough for a standard <b>booster chair</b>. I think they even sell boosters that recline for smaller babies now, so you could probably get away with just having one of those.<br />
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<br />
TOYS AND ENTERTAINMENT<br />
<br />
You do not have to buy any toys for baby. No, that is not a typo. One day you will look around your house and think, “We have way too many toys!!!” They will just appear and then procreate like bunnies. People will give them to you as gifts, you will get hand me downs. And if you don’t, for the first 6 months, baby will be perfectly happy chewing on your tupperware lids and drooling on your phone. Of course, if you can’t resist that adorable little stuffed animal or perfectly educational set of rings, go ahead and get it. It is fun, and not all phones are created drool-proof.<br />
<br />
Even if you are trying to stick to the basics, you may want to splurge on a bouncy seat or swing of some sort for your baby. It’s nice to have a portable place to set them down and keep them nearby while you shower, fold laundry, eat dinner, or more realistically, snooze on the couch.<br />
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<br />
FOR THE PARENTS<br />
<br />
Find a <b>diaper bag</b> that you love. It will be your purse (or murse) for the next three plus years. Lots of pockets are great. Easy to clean is great. Personally, I have not regretted for one moment my purchase of the Petunia Pickle Bottom backpack diaper bag. It is high quality, it doesn’t slide off my shoulder when I’m chasing munchkins, and has everything an organized fanatic like me would want in a bag. It also hooks to my stroller with these nifty little stroller hooks that are sold separately. I’m not going to lie. It was pricey. But worth every penny, and the only bag I’ve ever needed.<br />
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Read some <b>baby books</b> BEFORE you bring home baby. If you are like us, you’ve spent plenty of time reading up on pregnancy, labor and delivery. You may even have read some books on breast feeding. That’s great! Just don’t forget to read a book on baby and sleep. (We like Healthy Sleep Habits, Healthy Child). Because it turns out, most babies do not know how and when to sleep on their own. I know. It’s shocking. Unpleasantly so.<br />
<br />
Go on some dates. As many as you can. Spend some lazy Saturday or Sunday mornings in bed. Go to restaurants that don’t have a dollar menu. Go to the movies. Go somewhere overnight and only pack one small bag. Slam your doors and stomp around the house at all hours. Speak above a whisper. Use your doorbell. Stay up past 9 pm. Enjoy your remaining time as a family of two. Because in just a few months, life is going to get much more complicated. And much more fun.Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519701220302400071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2614767874691033425.post-89492415690149262652015-10-21T12:20:00.000-07:002015-10-21T12:40:59.943-07:00How We Roll with Twins: FeedingWhen I found out I was having twins, I desperately wished someone would tell me exactly how they handled having two babies at once. I would walk up to total strangers if they had kids who looked to be the same age and upon confirming that they had in fact survived baby-dom with twins, I hit them with a barrage of questions that could put even the longest tax form to shame.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, looking for all the answers.</td></tr>
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<br />
With the exception of a few wonderful friends (both old and new), I mostly received vague bits of wisdom in answer to all my queries.<br />
<br />
“You’ll be fine; it’s exactly like having one baby except there are two.”<br />
<br />
“It gets so much easier once they are older.”<br />
<br />
And my personal favorite:<br />
<br />
“We found a night nurse to be invaluable.” [Chris’ comment on that? “Umm, isn’t that what you’ll be doing?”]<br />
<br />
Of course, now that I’ve been through the first few months of motherhood with twins, I realize it is not just possible, but quite likely, that we mothers of twins forget exactly what it’s like at the beginning. So for anyone who is interested or is expecting twins and desperately needs to know, here is how we fed our twin boys. Exactly.<br />
<br />
<b>Breastfeeding</b><br />
<br />
Before I had the boys, I always pictures myself nursing them. I breastfed both of my girls exclusively for the first 9 or 10 months and loved it. I loved the bonding time, and more than that I loved not needing to worry about cleaning/heating bottles or measuring formula in the middle of the night. I was hopeful that I would find a way to nurse both boys at the same time, as I knew the time it would take to nurse them separately would border on impossible.<br />
<br />
Once I actually had the twins in my arms, it became apparent that I would need to nurse each baby separately, at least to start with. Ryan seemed to take to nursing pretty quickly, but Joel had a very difficult time latching. By the end of our hospital stay, I had gotten both boys to latch at the same time exactly once, and that was with the help of 6 pillows, two blankets, and a lactation consultant.<br />
<br />
When we came home from the hospital, I diligently tried to nurse each baby every three hours. After 24 hours home, neither baby had had a wet or dirty diaper, but both appeared to have a healthy set of lungs which they used simultaneously to alert us of their displeasure. We ended up giving each boy one of those ready made 2 oz formula samples, which they sucked down like they hadn’t had a proper meal in days (perhaps they hadn’t).<br />
<br />
After several visits with a lactation specialist, a lot of frustration and an enormous amount of shame and guilt, I stopped my failed attempts at nursing. This was not an easy thing for me to do, and it didn’t help that the ‘literature’ the hospital sent us home with bordered on propaganda with its formula and bottle shaming. In the end, I threw out every piece of paper that made me feel like a contender for worst parent in the world if I couldn’t breastfeed exclusively, and kept the few pages which offered practical information on storing pumped breastmilk and how many ounces a day a newborn should be eating. I decided that what was best for my babies was whatever kept my family the most sane, which for us, was bottle-feeding.<br />
<br />
**I should note that I know several mothers of twins who successfully breastfed, which is spectacular! But this is not the right place to come for information on how that works.<br />
<br />
<b>Bottle-feeding</b><br />
<br />
The trickiest part about bottle-feeding was figuring out how to feed both boys at once. Following the most oft given advice on twins: feed one, feed both, sleep one, sleep both, we wanted to make sure the boys ate at the same time. For the first few weeks, Chris and I were both present at every feeding, each feeding one boy.<br />
<br />
But alas, Chris couldn’t stay home from work forever. And even if he could have, both of us getting up at night for every feeding was taking its toll. We found that the easiest way for one of us to feed both boys was to sit on the floor (or bed or couch) and lay the boys on their backs on either side of us. We always put their heads on burp cloths in case one or both babies forgot how to swallow mid bottle and was secretly just drooling all the milk down the side of his face. I won’t name any names. Joel.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An early technique.</td></tr>
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It’s not a perfect system: the boys are pretty much flat on their backs but for the minor incline caused by my rear end sinking further into the mattress than theirs. I’m not sure what the effects of flat-on-your-back-eating are, but it’s something we are willing to risk. It’s worth it to preserve the schedule.<br />
<br />
Yup, I just said schedule. I know a lot of moms prefer to feed their babies on demand. That’s wonderful. Your babies are eating! I also know a lot of moms prefer to feed on a schedule. That’s wonderful. Your babies are eating!<br />
<br />
For me, putting the boys on a four hour feeding schedule was the key to my sanity. Because the girls have school and extra curriculars that we need to work around, I decided to nudge the boys toward a 7, 11, 3, 7 feeding schedule. The times are not set in stone, but on a typical day, the boys eat within a half hour of those times. They have been on this schedule since they were about 5 weeks old.<br />
<br />
And I love the predictability. Love. It. I love knowing exactly when I will need to have bottles ready, and when I will need to find a place to feed the boys. Because it is rather difficult to feed them both at the same time when we are out of the house, I usually plan to be home during those times or with a friend who can feed one baby. <br />
<br />
The schedule also ensures that the boys are not hungry and desperate for a bottle during a time when I can’t feed them (i.e. if I’m walking Allie to/from school or getting Coco on or off the bus).<br />
<br />
Finally, I’ve found that for us, the 4 hour feeding schedule works really well with the boys’ naps. More on sleep later.<br />
<br />
Currently, Ryan and Joel are almost 4 months old, and they take about 6 ounces per feeding during the day, plus a 4 ounce bottle at night. Depending on when they wake at night, I sometimes split their morning feeding in order to preserve the 7, 11, 3, 7 schedule. For instance, if they wake at 5 am, they might have 4 oz then, and another 4 oz closer to 8 so that they’ll be okay until 11 am.<br />
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<b>Pumping</b><br />
<br />
Let’s not sugar coat this. Pumping sucks. Ha! In more ways than one. It evilly combines all the disadvantages of bottle feeding without any of the advantages of breastfeeding. [Obviously with one exception: your baby is getting breastmilk, which is amazing!]<br />
<br />
When you are pumping, you still have to deal with washing and heating bottles, and you also have to deal with finding a discreet place when you are out in public. Not only do you have to find the time to feed your baby, you have to find the time to pump. Which means waking up in the morning before the baby does, using baby’s nap times for pumping instead of sleeping or getting things done, and can still result in being hooked up to a pump whilst your baby, or in my case babies, scream in their cribs.<br />
<br />
I pumped for three months with the boys and was able to provide breastmilk for about half of their diet. So I just chose my favorite boy and gave it all to him. Kidding, kidding! They each got breastmilk about every other bottle.<br />
<br />
It was wonderful providing the benefits of breastmilk to the boys, and it was worth it to give up every moment of potential free time to do it…until it wasn’t. I gave up pumping because I wanted to sleep until the babies woke up in the morning. I wanted to be able to watch a show at night with Chris without the ‘psh psh psh psh’ of the pump as background noise. I wanted to take the kids to the zoo all day without worrying about finding a place to pump. I wanted to spend more time playing with the boys. I wanted to have time to sit around and drink coke and read. I mean, exercise. The disadvantages of pumping began to outweigh the benefits of feeding the boys breastmilk, and for me, it was time to stop.<br />
<br />
Bottom line? If you are happy pumping, that’s awesome, keep going! Your baby is eating! If you are not happy pumping and you want to give your baby formula, that’s awesome. Your baby is eating!<br />
<br />
<b>This blog post is entirely too long—get to the point</b>.<br />
<br />
In short, my advice on feeding twins is this:<br />
1. Feed them at the same time.<br />
2. Use a 4 hour feeding schedule. (A lot of twins start their lives in the NICU and are on a 4 hour feeding schedule from birth anyway!)<br />
3. I’m not going to lie. That night nurse would have been nice.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These boys are fed formula on a schedule. Do you see how they suffer!?!</td></tr>
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<br />Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519701220302400071noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2614767874691033425.post-18323127134058973502015-09-03T14:58:00.000-07:002015-09-03T14:58:00.830-07:00The First Two Months<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Countless girls want to have twins when they grow up. I lost track of the number of women who see my boys in their double stroller and say, “Aww, I always thought it would be fun to have twins!”<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Twins are so easy.</td></tr>
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And it is fun. Double the smiles. Double the cuddles. Double those sweet little expressions they make when they are sleeping. The myriad of Halloween costumes that are now available: Batman and Robin, Thing 1 and Thing 2, peas and carrots. Whatever suits your fancy. So. Much. Fun.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5h0RBUcenC67cZ6i9Clzmn6IpHGch7uzRCxb3m3hE-TUclvHJXGsjNHgGv06EuO9zaRuztIJPvInFovTNlFnkvcL8DY60ls4gNUVcPRzVZ7RQclKU_0xNOSXmDrbvTPZ7ZLsJfWMImpkY/s1600/2015-09-01+09.33.11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5h0RBUcenC67cZ6i9Clzmn6IpHGch7uzRCxb3m3hE-TUclvHJXGsjNHgGv06EuO9zaRuztIJPvInFovTNlFnkvcL8DY60ls4gNUVcPRzVZ7RQclKU_0xNOSXmDrbvTPZ7ZLsJfWMImpkY/s320/2015-09-01+09.33.11.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yay! Fun!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But also, I am beginning to suspect, having twins is a lot like doing a triathlon. For 18 years. Granted, I don’t run unless something is chasing me and I don’t like to put my face in the water, but I do like to bike. Also, I have twins, so bear with me on the analogy for a moment.<br />
<br />
Because when you have twins you are always exhausted, rarely stop moving, and often wonder whether you are going to make it. You don’t have time to eat. Or pee. And you desperately need a shower but have come to grips with the fact that it’s just not going to happen as often as it should.<br />
<br />
Now that the boys are two months old, I have just enough perspective and almost enough sleep to look back on our first weeks and make some semi-rational observations about our life with twins thus far.<br />
<br />
I think the hardest thing about having twins is that there are two of them. Just when you get one baby changed, dressed and down the stairs, you realize there is another one waiting none too patiently in his crib for the same. Every time you pick up one sweet baby and start to cuddle him, you are leaving his sweet brother lying forlornly next to you on the bed/couch/floor/bouncer not being cuddled. And every time you watch your little boy drift into peaceful, limp armed, smiling-with-his-dimple sleep, there is a good chance your other little boy is staring at you wide eyed from the confinement of his baby-burrito wondering loudly why he can no longer move his arms. And when you go out? (If you go out) There are still two babies. Plus two pumpkin seats, two blankies, two binkies, two bottles, and 8 diapers. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLMRzNyxqPbW0T8HqBhALX-qEu8cBybx_9X_LwxHeerHXZT0urHIXBKHgf1exzaAsyr4G541IGADpjO7Ji5RbFv53ir2oJzBrfAD6ArBxyET7zv5dgtqqV7p9IpygETZj3qbZ9Q8MSaT6l/s1600/2015-07-18+13.36.19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLMRzNyxqPbW0T8HqBhALX-qEu8cBybx_9X_LwxHeerHXZT0urHIXBKHgf1exzaAsyr4G541IGADpjO7Ji5RbFv53ir2oJzBrfAD6ArBxyET7zv5dgtqqV7p9IpygETZj3qbZ9Q8MSaT6l/s320/2015-07-18+13.36.19.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Always two.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For the first few weeks, I felt constantly outnumbered and overwhelmed. I spent much of those first days home crying. I cried because I was tired and hormonal, but also because I didn’t know how we were going to do it. How was I going to spend quality time with each of our four kids? How would I keep everybody fed and clothed and clean? I literally thought I would never leave the house again. I vaguely remember saying exactly that: I was sitting on the bed surrounded by babies, ugly-crying with red eyes and a runny nose. Between sobs I told Chris, “I am *sniff* never *sniff* going to be able to *sniff* go anywhere *sniff* again. Ever. *sob*”<br />
<br />
But then those first days and weeks passed. Our truly amazing friends brought us food and diapers and took our daughters to do fun things. My mom came, helped for a week, and took the girls back to Washington with her for vacation. Chris’ mom and dad watched the boys one evening so we could go out. Our amazing friends brought more amazing food. Our house did not explode and nobody, that I know of, felt unloved or under-cared for. We survived. <br />
<br />
While Chris and I are still bleary eyed and dreaming (figuratively of course) of longer stretches of sleep, the boys are thriving. They are healthy, happy, and (I don’t meant to brag) pretty darn adorable. They enjoy chewing on their fists, smiling, cooing, tummy time, and having their sisters’ faces three inches from their own at almost every waking moment. We couldn’t be happier with our ‘little’ family of six.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy20YI7PJ7Pbb6H6WcwbCMvNNDtDJzUgAPq0d_d7hdUuohMyuqQoeWJ9updYGYZSZvYcl3vwITC0FGOrx1GzDdzzDpfPnlgcSr1PGQYYWyLiZEAVeV0s1YUhQ75NGXYcGgTIJghiZeCHKL/s1600/2015-09-02+08.40.01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy20YI7PJ7Pbb6H6WcwbCMvNNDtDJzUgAPq0d_d7hdUuohMyuqQoeWJ9updYGYZSZvYcl3vwITC0FGOrx1GzDdzzDpfPnlgcSr1PGQYYWyLiZEAVeV0s1YUhQ75NGXYcGgTIJghiZeCHKL/s320/2015-09-02+08.40.01.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The boys enjoying their sisters and vice versa.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But if having twins is like doing a triathlon, having twins plus two overzealous girls is like running a marathon. In a tornado. With glitter. More on that later.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu8oN36hhOsg8oAAfIorGNG9HC_yobt8r1urt2TwuCZKUKeFPno5AMFYqG0-omN45mVngid74e1d9Q-22GknjeryBi8oMFDjoItNOJ7brwsv7cSihaSlIV_aUbz0JH1iGbII8NpFJNts45/s1600/2015-09-01+12.26.00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu8oN36hhOsg8oAAfIorGNG9HC_yobt8r1urt2TwuCZKUKeFPno5AMFYqG0-omN45mVngid74e1d9Q-22GknjeryBi8oMFDjoItNOJ7brwsv7cSihaSlIV_aUbz0JH1iGbII8NpFJNts45/s320/2015-09-01+12.26.00.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tilt your head to the right to see two thriving boys.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span id="goog_1992858167"></span><span id="goog_1992858168"></span>Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519701220302400071noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2614767874691033425.post-32326585680531642472015-03-01T19:25:00.000-08:002015-03-01T19:29:24.814-08:00 This may not be our first rodeo, but it kind of feels like it is…Chris and I did not take the decision to have a third child lightly. We went back and forth a lot. The girls are getting so much easier in so many ways. They get themselves up on the weekends and make their own breakfasts, so we can sleep in. We don’t have to worry about diapers, bottles or being home in time for naps. When we run errands, I take only my small wallet. When we go somewhere overnight, we no longer need a semi-truck to cart around various baby paraphernalia.<br />
<br />
We questioned whether we wanted to ‘start all over’ with the baby stage. In the end, we decided it would be worth it. I’ve spoken to multiple people who wish they had another child. I have yet to meet a parent who said, “Oh man, I wish we hadn’t had that third one!”<br />
<br />
Besides, we figured this baby would be a breeze compared to the first two. With Allison, we had just one baby at home, and life was relatively simple. Of course, we were first time parents and had no idea that life was relatively simple. I was overwhelmed by nap schedules (or lack there of) and diapers and nursing. When Nicole came a long, we pretty much had the whole baby thing worked out but were unprepared to add the toddler into the mix.<br />
<br />
My thought was that our third child would be so much younger than Allie and Nicole that it would basically be like having one baby again but with the advantage of knowing how easy we had it. Good thinking, right?<br />
<br />
Except I think this is what happened: Karma and Fate were somewhere out there hanging out, and they witnessed my cocky can-do-girls-and-maybe-even-a-boy attitude. One nudged the other with his elbow and said, “Heh, heh. Dude, you know what would be funny?”<br />
<br />
**********************<br />
<br />
Our first ultrasound with this pregnancy was back in December when we were 8 weeks along. My doctor said we would try to see the heart beat, and make sure it was just one baby. You can imagine my relief when I saw our baby’s head, belly, and arm and leg stubs and a nice strong heart beat. The doctor moved the wand around a little more and confirmed, “Just the one baby in there!”<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHZRklvs8M-wCtHq3k6y8UcEnnakChNmuDEU3nV4avO2j8wv6btqm0oWdharA01bDYjnj0UY0nWnLcl5cxM8JEovNVcdzdG5SjbbsqNlqjm7nnfZUBDV52X-0y6g_KfCJaTzB2eP-D56E6/s1600/2015-03-01+11.52.16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHZRklvs8M-wCtHq3k6y8UcEnnakChNmuDEU3nV4avO2j8wv6btqm0oWdharA01bDYjnj0UY0nWnLcl5cxM8JEovNVcdzdG5SjbbsqNlqjm7nnfZUBDV52X-0y6g_KfCJaTzB2eP-D56E6/s1600/2015-03-01+11.52.16.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One peanut.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I went on my merry way, pleased and reassured that at least thus far, we had a healthy baby. The next months passed in a blur of all the usual activity of a family of four combined with morning sickness, afternoon sickness, evening sickness, and some heart burn thrown in for good measure. <br />
<br />
I was absolutely exhausted—more so, it seemed, than I had ever been when pregnant with either of the girls. Even my borderline neurotic tendencies with the house started to slide as a result. I left beds unmade (particularly mine—what was the point when I knew I’d be back for a nap within hours), dishes undone, and toys scattered all over the house. I’d be asleep by 9:00 at the latest, despite having taken a nap.<br />
<br />
When the exhaustion and morning sickness failed to abate well into the 2nd trimester, it did occur to me that something else might be going on. I thought I may be anemic, but I also knew that pregnancies vary greatly and mine might be of the particularly rough variety.<br />
<br />
Then I started to get big. I mean really big. The kind of big where putting on your own shoes in the morning can seem a bit daunting. I hadn’t actually gained more than a pound or two, but my belly already looked like it did around 36 weeks with Allison.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSt37Ukd3sSftwPPktBBbkQp3oYAhuqknEYdqlJxThTKC6lqwuIWSCmlIcKWn9U2s2t_xCm_U36UcqUX_lwZba5PBHPU_5pwN62wDXjIXMl0GCUk9zmsYnfX_5ZLoGgpX0PudwdaLOaVm4/s1600/20+weeks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSt37Ukd3sSftwPPktBBbkQp3oYAhuqknEYdqlJxThTKC6lqwuIWSCmlIcKWn9U2s2t_xCm_U36UcqUX_lwZba5PBHPU_5pwN62wDXjIXMl0GCUk9zmsYnfX_5ZLoGgpX0PudwdaLOaVm4/s1600/20+weeks.jpg" height="320" width="268" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">20 Weeks. Thar She Blows.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It was around this time that I started my extensive google research on ‘hidden twins’ and mothers whose early ultrasounds only showed one baby, but the 20 week ultrasound showed twins. My internet history is absolutely full of various sites regarding this rare phenomenon.<br />
<br />
I won’t claim that I had some sort of mother’s intuition or anything about having twins; it was more wishful thinking that there was a reasonable explanation to why I looked like I was about to give birth only 20 weeks into the pregnancy. The only other theory I came up with was that I was carrying a goat, whose gestational period is about 5 months. Not surprisingly, I preferred the twin theory.<br />
<br />
The night before our twenty week ultra sound I had a hard time sleeping. I couldn’t wait to find out if we were having a boy or a girl, and I woke up early, worried whether everything was okay.<br />
<br />
After we got the girls off to school, Chris and I headed over to the hospital. We checked in at the fetal monitoring center and waited to be called. I couldn’t stop smiling when they finally called us, and we were taken back to the ultrasound room.<br />
<br />
Our technician squirted gel on my tummy, placed the wand on top, and an image popped up on the tv mounted in the corner of the room. She moved the wand around pretty quickly at first, but we could clearly see two separate circles on the screen.<br />
<br />
Chris told me later that it was at this point that he suspected there might be two babies. I didn’t speculate as I have always been horrible at reading ultrasounds. When Allie was a baby, I finally just lied and said I could see her little legs and arms, when in reality I had no clue what I was looking at.<br />
<br />
The technician asked if this was our first ultrasound. I replied, “No, we had one at 8 weeks.”<br />
<br />
“Well, I’m seeing two babies,” she said.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifewvu5b2WAG5jSMTEfI_jYagYdCZEiquYdwWhe2LoeCRXwndXSCz22a9_GI3x-VxiVjNiG1fqtDEGhtuGL_m_YpxmTvaaJ0ywkFBbmNFmVmtF9l6igAwUO9338dxaO9dSebtPoDjw4xJt/s1600/2015-03-01+11.55.43.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifewvu5b2WAG5jSMTEfI_jYagYdCZEiquYdwWhe2LoeCRXwndXSCz22a9_GI3x-VxiVjNiG1fqtDEGhtuGL_m_YpxmTvaaJ0ywkFBbmNFmVmtF9l6igAwUO9338dxaO9dSebtPoDjw4xJt/s1600/2015-03-01+11.55.43.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two peanuts.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
I looked at Chris. He looked back at me. I smiled. He smiled back, albeit slowly. I was actually wondering if I was in the middle of a very realistic dream that had spawned from all of my hidden twin research. I was considering pinching him to find out, but he didn’t know that.<br />
<br />
I asked the technician if she saw two heart beats, and she replied that yes she could. She also could see two heads, two bodies, and a whole tangle of arms and legs. Then I said, “No way. I can’t believe it. This is crazy,” about twenty-six times.<br />
<br />
But the weird thing was, despite my assertions to the contrary, I could believe it. I think I was truly more shocked that both babies were boys than that there were two of them.<br />
<br />
While the ultra sound technician took measurements on Baby A (11 oz) and Baby B (10 oz and a major mover and shaker), I asked Chris if he was surprised. “Well, I thought I might be seeing two babies when she first turned it on,” he said. Then he added, “And I thought you were looking big. Really big.”<br />
<br />
I tried not to take offense, as I had certainly noticed the same thing, but I still felt compelled to defend myself. “There are a lot of women bigger than this at 20 weeks!” [I have no idea whether that’s true]<br />
<br />
“<i>Really?!?!</i>” he answered, disbelievingly. That’s when I pinched him [in my mind].<br />
<br />
We spent the next 45 minutes or so watching our little boys move around and stretch their tiny arms while the technician got the images she needed. She said that the boys were lying feet to head, so that Baby B was breech. She could only see one placenta, and said it looked like the boys each had their own sacs. We will be unable to determine if they are identical until after they are born and have DNA testing.<br />
<br />
After she was finished, a doctor also came in to take a look. He asked us to meet him in his office afterward. It turns out that being pregnant with multiples automatically puts you in the high risk category, and there are varying degrees of high risk within that.<br />
<br />
Because the boys share a placenta, there is a risk of Twin Twin Transfusion Syndrome (TTFS). About one in five pregnancies with shared placentas will have this syndrome, where one baby gets too little blood and the other gets too much. The doctor reassured us that it doesn’t look like the boys are having that problem now, but we will need to be seen for another ultrasound in a couple of weeks to make sure this is still the case.<br />
<br />
The only other abnormality that could be spotted at this time was that both boys have just one umbilical artery. Most babies have two, but the second is a redundancy [like having two kidneys, the doctor explained]. As long as the ones they have continue to function properly, this will not be a problem.<br />
<br />
About two hours after we arrived at the hospital, we were finally able to schedule our next couple of ultra sounds and head out. The rest of the day was spent in a blur of telling friends and family the big news. An alarming number of you took some convincing that we were in fact telling the truth, but why would we lie about something like that?! [Ok. It kind of sounds like something I would do.]Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519701220302400071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2614767874691033425.post-35710213992209859092015-02-23T08:44:00.001-08:002015-02-23T08:44:36.152-08:00We’ll Cross Our Fingers for a Boy!!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCewGpXFu5yJ7_SFtXh7jMB7CF8K2nzYhDUe994ShPGGVRa62xBWSPSXcRrj3m0rYl5sm8bDeWXnTU5ZRFru5HZqKnidwaMKcfhjrZ1DTJoBdvZJyqWsNLoQValiQEAA166Mzpi1YgRbAl/s1600/booties.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCewGpXFu5yJ7_SFtXh7jMB7CF8K2nzYhDUe994ShPGGVRa62xBWSPSXcRrj3m0rYl5sm8bDeWXnTU5ZRFru5HZqKnidwaMKcfhjrZ1DTJoBdvZJyqWsNLoQValiQEAA166Mzpi1YgRbAl/s1600/booties.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
People I meet often figure out that I am expecting. Sometimes they guess by the belly, sometimes it’s my pea-green complexion curtesy of my old friend, morning sickness, and sometimes it just comes up in conversation somehow.<br /><br />After the kind congratulatory remarks, the questions begin: When are you due? How are you feeling? Is this your first? Do you know if you are having a boy or a girl?<br /><br />I know some women get irritated by the questions of strangers and barely contain their tempers while trying to find a nice way of saying, “none of your business,” but I am not one of them. I spend the majority of my days with two busy girlies and a husband who is working forty hours a week and taking two classes toward his master’s degree. Quite frankly, I’m thrilled when someone takes the time to ask me a question other than, “What’s for dinner?”<br /><br />What I do find a bit alarming is that after these strangers find out I have two daughters, they almost invariably say some form of “We’ll cross our fingers for you that this one’s a boy!”<br /><br />This never fails to stump me. Because I <i>know</i> girls. I know how to change their diapers and which brands of leggings are least likely to get holes in them. I know the names and cutie marks of all the main my little ponies and how to get those rubber polly pocket dresses on the little plastic plastic princesses without ripping them. I learned to french braid and to make lady bug and ice cream charms using nothing but a rainbow loom and rubber bands. I can put tights on a two year old, for pete’s sake. I love little girls, and I’d be thrilled to have one more.<br />
<br />It’s not that I’m opposed to having a boy. I have a lot of friends with sons, and their kids are great. They can be just as kind, compassionate and funny as their female counterparts. And I’ve heard boys can be just as messy, wild, and stubborn too.<br /><br />The only thing that makes me a tad nervous is the way that Chris laughs and says, “I just want to see you try to raise a boy, heh heh heh,” and his mother’s advice nine years ago “to watch your good pans—boys will take them and use them to change the oil in their cars.”<br /><br />But the point is that we are not hoping for a girl or a boy, just a healthy baby. Because the sex doesn’t matter. Newborns are terrifying regardless of gender. They are red and wrinkled and they can’t hold their own relatively large heads up. You have to teach them to eat and sleep and keep them warm, but not too warm. You have to count their wet diapers and figure out why they are crying and how to make them stop. You get to hold them and snuggle them and tell them that they will grow up to be kind, considerate, and loved. And that’s really quite enough to be getting on with.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ9tX43zNsPILSo-HyLLb8atDoAtpiQzz_05yIUipPNTgwBp38ZvoK-CGtLWuC40mfY0SmHQfbZvPFJ7zwFMRzWLjoMnD61bcmfvNXpPM8g9Op5W82EZxXL3S-dPA0nIZ6jrbL2nuG8tsZ/s1600/allie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ9tX43zNsPILSo-HyLLb8atDoAtpiQzz_05yIUipPNTgwBp38ZvoK-CGtLWuC40mfY0SmHQfbZvPFJ7zwFMRzWLjoMnD61bcmfvNXpPM8g9Op5W82EZxXL3S-dPA0nIZ6jrbL2nuG8tsZ/s1600/allie.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So terrifying.</td></tr>
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<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ouGVF-_S-FdS3B1g9qKyv2xAA0VS187WyXy5oXi5Wx0yC11ZN2KuqMoHS6FFIMk0lDGqP4_kseOwRmQC8D9mLRGRAWqgVW2VjYfiqgPiD1oLJvtNXRvKHN-Yaz5GTFFwcW2NtTTJoGim/s1600/coco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ouGVF-_S-FdS3B1g9qKyv2xAA0VS187WyXy5oXi5Wx0yC11ZN2KuqMoHS6FFIMk0lDGqP4_kseOwRmQC8D9mLRGRAWqgVW2VjYfiqgPiD1oLJvtNXRvKHN-Yaz5GTFFwcW2NtTTJoGim/s1600/coco.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So terrifying too.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We have our twenty week ultrasound on Wednesday, and as long as baby cooperates, we’ll get to find out if we are expecting a boy or a girl. But please, don’t cross your fingers that it’s a boy (or a girl). Just cross your fingers that it’s healthy. And that it will sleep through the night at a very early age. And perhaps that it gets Chris’ hand-eye coordination.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Let me know your guesses!<br />My Guess: Girl <br />
Allison: Boy<br />
Nicole: Girl<br />
<br />Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519701220302400071noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2614767874691033425.post-60861202742248127712014-12-29T06:58:00.000-08:002014-12-29T06:58:00.075-08:00The Day the Girls Found OutWe told the girls about their impending sibling on Saturday, December 14th. We’d been waiting to make sure everything looked okay (we saw the baby’s heartbeat on the 5th, so we are hopeful!), and also because we didn’t know how long our precious heathens could keep a secret (we didn’t plan to tell our parents until closer to Christmas).<br />
<br />
But both of the girls had stumbled upon me throwing up on several occasions (Allison said, “Mommy, are you okay!? I hope you feel better.” Nicole said, “Mommy? Why you keep <i>doing</i> that?” in a disgusted voice), so we felt like we better fess up sooner rather than later.<br />
<br />
The night before we told them, I wrote Allison a note:<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
Chris drew a picture for Nicole which featured our family of four plus a baby:<br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Crazies. Also, ignore the misspelling of Coco.</td></tr>
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<br />
We folded both of the notes and placed them in envelopes with the girls’ names on them. The next morning, I told the girls that we had a little surprise for them, sort of like an early Christmas present. <br />
<br />
“We get to open it?” asked Coco. I told them we would once Daddy was awake. Weirdly, Daddy awoke not long after. I think it might have been the combined efforts of Nicole sitting on his face, Allison pulling on his leg, and them both yelling, “Get up, Daddy!” at approximately 10 decibels.<br />
<br />
Once we were all downstairs, I had the girls sit in front of the Christmas tree. I filmed as Chris handed the girls the envelopes. Nicole opened hers, tossed the note on the floor, and said, “That not a present,” in a very disgruntled sort of way.<br />
<br />
Allison read hers aloud and though she didn’t jump up and down and scream like I had predicted, she did have a huge smile on her face. We explained about the baby to Coco, who immediately said, “I want a boy baby!”<br />
<br />
Allison, Chris and I cast our votes right after her [girl, boy, girl]. We started talking about what we would call the baby. Allison suggested “Lyla” if it’s a girl, and Nicole’s first suggestion was “Candy Cane”. Shortly after, she changed her mind in favor of “Tootsie Pop” as a first name and “Hello Kitty” as a middle name. <br />
<br />
Allison told Nicole that the baby was in my tummy, but Nicole wasn’t buying it. “No. Probably Daddy’s tummy,” she said, shaking her head.<br />
<br />
Then Allison asked how the baby had gotten in my tummy, and I quickly asked if they wanted to see a picture of their baby sibling.<br />
<br />
I showed them the ultra-sound images the doctor had given me. I pointed out the head and the arm nubs and the body, but Nicole was still quite skeptical. “That not look like a baby,” she said.<br />
<br />
Later, after the girls had been ‘helping’ Chris rake leaves, Allison ran inside. “I can’t believe we are going to have a baby!” she said excitedly.<br />
<br />
Little Lyla Tootsie Pop Hello Kitty Claussen is going to have the best big sisters ever.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519701220302400071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2614767874691033425.post-41819019860008438862014-12-28T07:38:00.000-08:002014-12-28T07:38:52.461-08:00Oi! Intriguing!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Back in November I took a pregnancy test. It was a Friday, and too early to have anything to worry about, but I took one because I wanted to lay to rest this building but irrational thought that I was pregnant. I’d had some pretty impressive heartburn on Halloween, which is something my non-pregnant self never experiences. Also, I kept falling asleep by 9:00 pm.<br />
<br />
It wasn’t even the type of sleepy that begins around 7:00 pm after an exhausting day and slowly culminates. It was more the kind where Chris would ask, “Hey, do you want to watch a movie?<br />
“Sure, that sounds good.” [Roll opening credits]<br />
“Zzzzzzzzzz”<br />
<br />
And laying my irrational thoughts to rest with an early pregnancy test totally worked. Until that second faint line appeared.<br />
<br />
I stared blankly at it for a good 30 seconds, but it didn’t go away. I blinked a couple of times. The lines were still there. I shook the test gently. Still two. Then, having exhausted all of my voodoo skills, I said a few things under my breath that did not become a mommy-to-be. <br />
<br />
Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t upset at the thought of a new baby. In fact, Chris and I had pretty much convinced ourselves we wanted a third. We had just thought we’d wait a year before trying. Only two weeks earlier Chris had mentioned that he definitely didn't want a baby until he finished his masters program. Even so, I was cautiously ecstatic. I wondered how Chris would take it.<br />
<br />
I waited out the hours before Chris got home from work with extreme impatience. I know some moms-to-be think up cute or clever ways to tell their significant others about an impending bundle of joy, but I have never been one of them. Historically, I’ve just blurted out the news before Chris had a chance to take his coat off, and it didn’t seem like now was a good time to change.<br />
<br />
So the moment Chris walked in the door, I said something like, “Hi, honey, how was your day? We need to talk,” in one big breath.<br />
<br />
Those four little words, “We need to talk,” can strike fear into the bravest of men. “What?” Chris said, “What’s going on?”<br />
<br />
Suddenly I decided to play it coy. Or maybe I’d just been rendered speechless. I pulled up a picture of the test on my iPhone 4, which took quite a while because the 4 is archaic.<br />
<br />
When the picture finally appeared, I handed the phone to Chris. He glanced at it and said, “Ooohhhh.”<br />
<br />
It wasn’t an “Ewwwww,” as in, “Why would you show me a picture of a stick that you peed on?” <br />
<br />
And it wasn’t an “Ooooohh,” as in, “I think I’m going to throw up.”<br />
<br />
It was just, “Ooohhh,” as in “Oi! Intriguing!”<br />
<br />
I stared at Chris for a moment, and he looked back at me. I spoke slowly in case he was in shock: “Do you know what that means?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, I know what that means. Of course!”<br />
<br />
“And….”<br />
<br />
“And what?”<br />
<br />
“Well, are you…happy?”<br />
<br />
“Yeah, it will be good. How often are those tests wrong?”<br />
<br />
"Not often. Should I take another test?"<br />
<br />
"No, I don't think so. Let's just wait and see."<br />
<br />
"Umm, okay." <br />
<br />
[The next day I bought a two pack of tests at Target. Both times I watched the plus sign appear before my very eyes. One test is not often wrong. Three tests are almost never wrong. If I weren't a mathematician, I'd leave off the 'almost'.] <br />
<br />
Anyway, we spent a few more minutes talking about due dates/whose fault it was (July 18th/His), and we both agreed it was pretty exciting, timing be darned. Then the heathens came into the kitchen and all of the usual chaos ensued until bedtime.<br />
<br />
Upstairs, there was another brief round of, “Hey, you want to watch a movie?” [him] followed by, “Zzzz” [me]. And then I woke up at four in the morning able to think of nothing but this possible baby.<br />
<br />
I thought about how Allison and Nicole would love having a baby in the house, and what room we could use for a nursery. I thought about adding another hook in the girls’ bathroom for the new baby’s towel and how I would need to switch some pictures out of frames to include the newbie. I wondered where we’d put guests once the guest room was a nursery and whether we’d need a bigger kitchen table. I worried about my job and childcare and needing a mini-van and the alarming possibility that this baby could be a boy. I pictured us holding a footie-pajama-ed bundle of cuddliness, family pictures of five, and Thanksgivings thirty years from now with a house full of people and our three beautiful children rolling their eyes and smiling about their neurotic mother.<br />
<br />
I couldn’t go back to sleep, and I spent the following day thinking, “I can’t believe I’m pregnant,” forty gazillion times.<br />
<br />
Chris woke up just before eight o’clock, stretched, and put on some work clothes. “I’m going to go work on the neighbors' deck.”<br />
<br />
Mars. Venus.Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519701220302400071noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2614767874691033425.post-52057154717022941932014-08-22T10:03:00.001-07:002014-08-22T12:17:57.284-07:00Gonna Be a Fine DayThough medical forms and genealogists may refer to him as my paternal grandfather, to myself, my sister, and all of our friends he has always been ‘Opi’. He passed away on July 2nd, 2014. <br />
<br />
It was an exceptionally cool day for Missouri in the summer. The temperature topped out around 77 degrees and the humidity was almost non-existent. It was the kind of day about which Opi would exclaim, “Wow, what a great day. Boy, doesn’t Missouri have fine weather?” I’m not sure if he would have said that last part to everyone, or if it was a sentiment he reserved for me. I was raised in the mild climate of Washington State and complained frequently about the unbearable Missouri heat; Opi good-naturedly stood up for his home state every chance he got.<br />
<br />
I still picture him sitting in his rolling desk chair (it was better for his back) at his kitchen table. He is wearing his sweatpants, a flannel shirt and his zip up red sweatshirt jacket. His hands, covered with age spots, are deftly breaking up the dark chocolate for the little square tupperware that was kept perennially on the table. Though the bulk of the responsibility of keeping and maintaining their lifestyle had gradually fallen to Omi, Opi, as far as I know, was always the breaker of the chocolate.<br />
<br />
My regrets about his death are ordinary. I should have visited more often. I should have called more frequently. I should have told him how much I loved, admired, and respected him. For the past several years, I have been meaning to get down to Rolla to interview Opi about his life. I wanted to hear about his childhood, his young-adulthood. The way he existed before me, and his life before he became Opi. Of course I can’t ask him about those things now, and I feel robbed of what I’m sure would have been a remarkable story.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Milton Monroe and Maria Louise, before they became Omi and Opi.</td></tr>
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Instead, I am left with only what <i>I</i> remember about my grandfather’s life. But that’s a story worth telling too.<br />
<br />
Opi graduated from the Missouri School of Mines, which was later known as the University of Missouri-Rolla and is now known as Missouri S&T. He worked in the field of metallurgy, and to be honest, I never knew exactly what that meant. My point of pride was that I could pronounce ‘metallurgy’; the actualities of the job were never really a concern for me.<br />
<br />
Opi has been retired since my earliest memories of him. My sister remembers him leaving for work in the mornings, with a lunch that Omi packed for him, but to me he has always been one half of ‘Omi and Opi’, endlessly available to play with my sister and me during our trips to Missouri and their trips to Washington.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Opi, our endlessly available playmate.</td></tr>
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Omi and Opi came to our house almost every year for Christmas. My sister and I always bought Opi a big tub of Andes mints as his present. He set it on top of the fridge during his stay and Laura and I would mill around the kitchen asking for one every five minutes. I actually don’t remember it being every five minutes, but now that I have kids and know something about their attention spans and persistence for candy, I think it is an accurate assumption. We were always allowed to have a mint with Opi during his coffee breaks, which weren’t every five minutes, but still pretty frequent.<br />
<br />
Every morning, Opi did his ‘morning exercises’. I would lay down on the floor next to him and pretend to do sit ups or push ups until I got bored and ran off to undoubtedly antagonize someone else. My parents, my grandparents, and my sister and me would play Mille Bornes at night before bed. Laura was usually on the ‘girls’ team while I played with Opi and Dad on the ‘boys’ team. I never minded being the honorary boy.<br />
<br />
My family went back to Missouri about every other year during Laura’s and my summer breaks. The visit to ‘Hard Scrabble Hill,’ as we called Omi’s and Opi’s was, especially when we were younger, a highlight of the trip. Opi used to put on a pair of special shoes and get out a platform he made and clog. If I remember correctly, he was pretty good. Laura and I would stand next to him or on the platform when he finished and try to mimic his footwork.<br />
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<br />
In the evenings, Opi would place cookies that Omi had baked on a plate on the table and say, “help yourselves, these are for general consumption.” My cousins would later nickname Opi ‘General Consumption’ and he was soon joined by ‘Major Nuisance’ and ‘Private Public’. <br />
<br />
Sometimes Opi would hook up an old trailer to his tractor and let my sister, my cousins (once they were old enough), and me hop in. We’d sit delightedly in the back while he pulled us all around the property. Opi taught me how to identify poison ivy (leaves of three, let them be) and how to listen for the calls of katydids and whippoorwills. (To this day I thought that katydids were birds. You can imagine my unpleasant surprise when upon googling the spelling I discovered they are actually insects.) At night, we’d stay up late catching lightening bugs in our hands, marveling at how warm it was even after the sun went down.<br />
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As we got older, my sister and I spent less and less time outside with Opi and more time inside, away from the heat and humidity. We became busy with our own teenage lives, high school and then college, and our visits to Hard Scabble Hill became less frequent. But in the winter of 2003 I decided, on a whim, to apply to grad school at the University of Missouri-Rolla. I was accepted, and I moved to Rolla, Missouri that summer. Omi and Opi were thrilled with my close proximity, and I loved having family near by. At least three times a week I would go to my grandparents’ house for delicious home cooked meals and their charming company. We would sit in their cozy, dimly-lit kitchen and discuss everything from my classes to politics and the latest ‘Car Talk’ show on NPR.<br />
<br />
I began to know and appreciate Opi through an adult perspective. He had a sharp but easy wit, and I loved to make him laugh. He would throw his head back and chuckle in a distinctly ‘Opi’ way. He had hundreds of lines of poems committed to memory and could recall them at the drop of a hat. It is perhaps an insult to this fount of learned by rote poetry that the only one I can remember is the following haiku he learned on car talk:<br />
<br />
<i>Four wheel drive pick up<br />I remember his last words:<br />Hold my beer, watch this!</i><br />
<br />
Opi’s love of poetry was matched by his love of music. He sang songs I’d never heard of before in his low melodic voice, and it was not uncommon for me to walk into the kitchen during my time in Rolla and find him waiting for me with his iPad to play me his latest favorite song. One evening he asked me, “Have you ever heard of this Baba B character, Rebecca-lein? Boy, he is a big guy. His music is really neat!”<br />
<br />
The songs that reminds me most of Opi are, “Fine Day” and “Sun Arise” by Rolf Harris. We probably listened to “Fine Day” dozens of times together, and it wouldn’t surprise me if Opi sang it to himself every morning. I think he just got it stuck in his head and would hum or sing it almost subconsciously until the next time he played it. If Opi had a theme song, ‘Fine Day,’ with its didgereedoo and upbeat sound, would be it.<br />
<br />
Omi has always been an excellent cook, and I think both Omi and Opi have always really preferred to have their meals cooked at home. But there was the occasional Tuesday that Omi had her German luncheon at her house. On these days, Omi would pack Opi an apple and send him off to Arby’s for lunch. “She kicked me out again,” Opi would fake-grumble. I met him at Arby’s when I was able, and we’d visit over our roast beef sandwiches. When I had to return to my classes or my schoolwork Opi would say, “Gee, I wonder if I can go back home yet?”<br />
<br />
In my second year of grad school I invited Omi and Opi to the movies. We went to Forum Cinema, Rolla’s only theatre. I would be willing to bet money that before then, they hadn’t been to a movie in at least twenty years, and they probably didn’t go again after. We saw Elf, and Opi insisted on paying for my ticket too. I sat next to Opi, and I can remember him throwing his head back and chuckling on a couple of occasions. After the movie, when we were back outside and squinting into the over bright sunlight, Opi remarked cheerfully, “what a dumb movie!” Elf has since become one of my all time favorite movies, and I think of Opi each time I watch it.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">UMR Graduation, December 2005</td></tr>
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When I graduated, I moved away from Rolla, and again became busy with life away from Hardscrabble Hill. Chris and I got married and eventually moved to Florissant, Missouri, which is where we lived when Opi turned 80. I was seven months pregnant at Opi’s birthday party, and although he knew I would attend, he was not expecting my parents or my aunt and cousin to be flying in as well. Opi was sweetly bewildered to see his family showing up at the door. “What a pleasant surprise,” he said. “Where did you guys come from?”<br />
<br />
At 80, Opi was still pretty spry. Though he had lost some of his height by then, he was not as stooped as he would become; he had more energy than he would in later years. But I remember the change in how he would answer when I’d ask, “Opi, how are you doing?”<br />
<br />
Whereas he used to say, “oh, pretty good” or “very well, thank you” or “can’t complain,” it was about this time that the answer became most often, “fair to middling”. But he said it in good spirits. Always.<br />
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The last time I saw Opi was over memorial day weekend, 2014. My parents and aunt had flown in again, and though Opi was often snoozing in his ‘inner sanctum’ (the back bedroom where he rested), when he was awake he was happy. I think he got a kick out of watching the girls running in and out of the kitchen, and he was content to sit out on the front porch and enjoy the view from the home that he and Omi built together.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from Omi's and Opi's front porch.</td></tr>
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The day that Opi passed away, Allie asked me why I was sad. “Well, he was very old,” she said knowledgeably.<br />
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“I know,” I answered, “but I still really miss him.”<br />
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“Me too. But you know where he’ll always be?” she said, patting my chest lightly, “in your heart.”<br />
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Which of course is pretty cheesy, but none-the-less true.<br />
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<br />Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519701220302400071noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2614767874691033425.post-83034148956213349662014-03-19T19:08:00.000-07:002014-03-19T19:11:06.144-07:00Eight Years<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">March 18, 2006</td></tr>
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Yesterday was Chris’ and my eighth wedding anniversary. I can remember some of the previous seven, but not all of them. On our first anniversary, we celebrated by taking a long weekend to Bull Shoals Lake in Arkansas. We stayed in a little cabin on the lake and because it was off-season, we had the place mostly to ourselves.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Year old cake with a kiss.</td></tr>
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We went on a couple of hikes, played board games and cards, and watched a movie or two on the little box TV mounted in the corner of our living room. We ate year old wedding cake and day old Oreos. We relaxed and talked and enjoyed each other’s company. We were 25 and child-less, and although we had jobs and bills and a one bedroom apartment to tend, we were care-free. It still felt like we were play-acting at being adults. I cooked and cleaned and diligently put away money into our savings account; Chris worked his 40 hour work week at Boeing and maintained our cars and appliances. We fought over whether we should stay in or go out, and how much of our free time should be spent together or apart. But we would always make up, make out, move on. <br />
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By our second anniversary, we had Allison. She was just four months old and a truly horrendous sleeper, but we were already enamored with her. We no longer fought about free time, because there wasn’t any. We were no longer playing at being adults, but learning how to be parents. I asked my Aunt Pam to watch Allie so we could go out to dinner to celebrate year two of marriage, just Chris and me. We dropped our baby off in her pumpkin seat with a bottle and the diaper bag and drove the few miles to Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse. I can’t remember what I ordered or what we talked about (probably Allie), but I remember feeling both liberated and lonely. I had done my hair and make-up and squeezed into a pre-pregnancy dress. Chris and I were just a young couple out on a romantic date and I felt pretty and lucky to be with my handsome husband. But by the end of dinner I desperately needed to nurse and we wanted to see how Allie was doing, so we rushed back to my Aunt’s and Uncle’s. Allie fell asleep on the way home and miraculously stayed asleep when we carried her into the apartment. Her anniversary gift to us was sleeping an unprecedented six hours straight.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">2nd Anniversary</td></tr>
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We moved from Florissant, Missouri to Renton, Washington in the Fall of 2008. Chris’ job with Boeing required the move, and I couldn’t have been happier. He was working 60 hour weeks and often weekends, but I was surrounded by friends and family. My mom came and spent the day with Allie and me every Tuesday, and she babysat for us after Chris got home. We had date night every single week, and we knew we were spoiled. For our third anniversary, we spent our first entire weekend away from Allison. My mom and dad kept Allie while we drove down to the Oregon Coast. We stayed in a hotel right on the beach of Yachats. Chris, exhausted from working long hours, was content to stay in our room and read or nap. I had a spa treatment on the third floor and soaked in the whirlpool overlooking the ocean. We walked along the beach and into town. Mom called to tell us Allie had her first ear infection, and while we were concerned, we knew she was in good hands. She also said her first clear word, ‘yes,’ which she enunciated carefully and slowly: yee-esh.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEreW52bm3p7X00-MX_CwVyGyyAJBVzdw78keqaD1rZM401goOBGypEZx_a-6HaKiC8c5XSia_Kpn9evjapb0pNUcw0OqrhxILMFHVmXJmoVzpPKW0v4rARTgCP4-WJIFEHCGASbbxdinF/s1600/IMG_3429.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEreW52bm3p7X00-MX_CwVyGyyAJBVzdw78keqaD1rZM401goOBGypEZx_a-6HaKiC8c5XSia_Kpn9evjapb0pNUcw0OqrhxILMFHVmXJmoVzpPKW0v4rARTgCP4-WJIFEHCGASbbxdinF/s1600/IMG_3429.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from our 3rd anniversary hotel room.</td></tr>
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Our fourth anniversary is one I can’t remember clearly. It would have been 2009; we were still living in Washington, though we had moved from our apartment to a rental house we found on Craigslist. I was two months pregnant with Nicole, but we were still reeling from the miscarriage we had in November, hoping that this baby would be okay. My morning/afternoon/evening sickness was so bad that Allie spent an inordinate time in front of the TV watching Sesame Street, Word World, and Sid the Science kid while I lay on the couch eating corn chips and drinking coke to keep from throwing up. I’m guessing we celebrated our anniversary by going out to dinner or to a movie, but I honestly don’t remember, and I can’t find any pictures that commemorated the event.<br />
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In June of that same year, Chris’ job moved us to Maryland. We had decided to drive, and I can remember tearfully piling into our SUV and pulling away from my parents’ house. Allison had an ear infection, an eye infection and a bad cold, but she handled the drive like a champ thanks to our portable DVD player. I was six months pregnant and miserable with a cold and the remnants of morning sickness. I was in a cough medicine induced fog until about the 5th day of our trip when I finally felt well enough to realize what an incredibly long drive it was. Chris drove the entire time, all nine days, from Arlington, WA to Lexington Park, MD: almost 3,000 miles. When we reached our destination he was rewarded with an incredibly cranky two year old and equally cranky wife. We both spent the first week and a half alternately crying and complaining. Sorry, hubby. But that’s what you get when you take your fairly pregnant wife away from her family and transplant her into a state with 105 degree heat indexes and no relatives.<br />
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Nicole was born in October, a week late but perfectly healthy, and we settled into life on the east coast as a family of four. By the time March rolled around, we had a few friends in the area that I trusted to watch the girls while we went out to dinner at a locally owned restaurant with a bay view. However, Nicole and I both woke up sick on the 18th, and we exchanged our night out for a night in with early bedtimes for the kids and a mediocre dinner cooked by yours truly. I actually would have been hard pressed to remember this anniversary, our fifth, but I mentioned it in a blog. I also made Chris a movie compilation of our first five years together, which can be seen <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jVBKVlZWZak" target="_blank">here</a> if you have six minutes to waste.<br />
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The next three years passed in a blur of moving (again--this time back to Missouri), buying our first home, pre-school, kindergarten, holidays and everything else that keeps a family of four ticking along. Though I have vague recollections of the St. Pat’s parades that must have preceded our anniversary each year, I really couldn’t tell you what we did to celebrate years six and seven of marriage. <br />
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Anyway, this brings us to yesterday, March 18, 2014, our 8th anniversary. We knew it was coming and we spent some time reminiscing the night before, but we didn’t discuss any plans. At about 4 o’clock in the afternoon, I called Chris to deliver the happy news that we were, for the second time, victims of credit card fraud. Because that is the kind of phone call you make when you’ve been married for eight years.<br />
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At the end of the call, I asked what Chris wanted to do for dinner. He suggested going somewhere in Historic Downtown St. Charles, and I agreed readily. I debated doing my hair and getting dressed up, but it appeared that both kids wearing pants would be the priority.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikFdR3LR_cg-joT4bUabikcK4iKxm1N2ss3JfQJ1xDYnCIPZZ-KNQ4VUqN_Uag32IA7Uwd3dWEIHqe9EsS86hfvYJmokUIjcvIZW6Q4nFEpZKt6jZXRcSgjWb5CChixpyKEJiCmYIE0dJV/s1600/girls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikFdR3LR_cg-joT4bUabikcK4iKxm1N2ss3JfQJ1xDYnCIPZZ-KNQ4VUqN_Uag32IA7Uwd3dWEIHqe9EsS86hfvYJmokUIjcvIZW6Q4nFEpZKt6jZXRcSgjWb5CChixpyKEJiCmYIE0dJV/s1600/girls.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look Mom, we are wearing pants!</td></tr>
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By the time I finished cajoling kids into pants, socks and coats, Chris was home and we were able to leave for dinner. Nicole talked the entire way, and Allison kept trying to fall asleep. We joked about how we spent the first three years of her life trying to get her to sleep only to have her fall asleep at the most inopportune moments now.<br />
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We picked a restaurant at random and walked in. It was completely empty but for us, so we had our choice of tables. We all squeezed into a booth, but not before the girls had a nice long fight over who would sit by mommy and who would sit by daddy.<br />
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While we waited for our food, we had a rock, paper, scissors tournament. Chris came in first followed by Allie, then Nicole. I came in dead last. Which is fine because despite being a pretty obnoxious winner, I’m a very graceful loser.<br />
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After the tournament, Allison and Nicole took turns singing “Let it Go” at the tops of their lungs. Nicole in particular has just the one volume: loud. Very loud. You may not understand what she is saying, but you can be darn sure she is saying something.<br />
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When dinner was over and Nicole had asked for ice cream for the umpteenth time, we decided to make our way back to the car. The river was just about fifty yards from the car, so we walked over to take a look. We passed the, and I kid you not, “Never Die Garden.” Apparently the garden had survived both the drought of 2012 and the flood of 2013, but it looked like the winter of 2014 had pretty much finished it off.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiICAGBSe-BmS4NPsKwd80ng7YzqpTgOzN19UJEB3cleU5Wv9wQ2BUkXCCrMQKWUT6M1L37hDrW75mYdQ4S2E-c3k-JjgdEY_wyV9DsT_mpzCJq4ZzRoQq_UsIU9OLTieSLrVZohorR9p9X/s1600/never+die.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiICAGBSe-BmS4NPsKwd80ng7YzqpTgOzN19UJEB3cleU5Wv9wQ2BUkXCCrMQKWUT6M1L37hDrW75mYdQ4S2E-c3k-JjgdEY_wyV9DsT_mpzCJq4ZzRoQq_UsIU9OLTieSLrVZohorR9p9X/s1600/never+die.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Never say die!</td></tr>
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Our last stop of the evening was at Dairy Queen for blizzards for Chris and me and cones for the girls. Nicole won the prize for the slowest, not to mention messiest, ice cream eater in the history of the world, a title I believe she held with pride.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_JLUGefSncMl01LGbxfpfDFbV3Hdkv7FlJn1YpP2RBBE3ATU62sSrtLQxQwb8QpOVJUaw2Ax3UukjpA16idjLYT-2v-LSLmZynLZV5KM6sFLrLej2gDzsakk02irJG5UBfSJK1A0dtPFr/s1600/cocoicecream.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_JLUGefSncMl01LGbxfpfDFbV3Hdkv7FlJn1YpP2RBBE3ATU62sSrtLQxQwb8QpOVJUaw2Ax3UukjpA16idjLYT-2v-LSLmZynLZV5KM6sFLrLej2gDzsakk02irJG5UBfSJK1A0dtPFr/s1600/cocoicecream.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1st Prize.</td></tr>
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Our marriage has changed over the last eight years. There is less romance. Fewer grand gestures of love. Chris eats sunflower seeds in bed and leaves his socks in little balls on the floor of our closet. I let the water run the entire time I’m doing dishes and am prone to irritability and crankiness. My palms no longer start to sweat and my heart doesn’t race every time that I see my husband.<br />
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But we have acquired much in the last almost decade. We have a shared history now, inside jokes. We are at ease. Comfortable. Happy, mostly. I still think Chris is kind, smart, hilarious, and good looking. So much so that I’ve always thought he’s a bit out of my league. I see him in the line of Allie’s jaw and in Coco when she raises one eyebrow. It has been eight years since we said ‘I do’ and it hasn’t always been easy, but it has always been worth it. Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519701220302400071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2614767874691033425.post-56061073299465694182014-02-20T11:11:00.000-08:002014-02-20T11:11:09.692-08:00Go ahead, tell lies on Facebook.Lately I’ve seen an <a href="http://www.kveller.com/blog/parenting/we-need-to-quit-telling-lies-on-facebook/" target="_blank">article</a> trending on Facebook about how we all lie through our status updates and pictures. We only post snippets of our day: smiling children, adorable pets, selfies of us dressed up and posed to look our best, and lunch and coffee that looks too good to be true. Apparently, it makes other people feel bad when they see that our lives are so perfect.<br /><br />Except when did Facebook need to become an accurate representation of our entire lives? I post pictures and anecdotes mostly so that my long distance friends and family can keep up with the happy and precious moments of our lives that they may otherwise miss. Also so that I can remember those moments. I have a very poor memory.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim5BjCgbwu_jkQ46qkLTnSLG_xnG9wnrjRG5v08RDdJmtBCEBbgUCV5pA0wDkc8xBH6nTijMkdSYwtX0z5wK2Gaqz-avbMIcxVOcQzfit5AHm7jVMHR47P0fl7dQWzAGcraw1dccu3cI94/s1600/girls+together.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim5BjCgbwu_jkQ46qkLTnSLG_xnG9wnrjRG5v08RDdJmtBCEBbgUCV5pA0wDkc8xBH6nTijMkdSYwtX0z5wK2Gaqz-avbMIcxVOcQzfit5AHm7jVMHR47P0fl7dQWzAGcraw1dccu3cI94/s1600/girls+together.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The type of picture I usually post.</td></tr>
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<br /><br />Of course I post the pictures where the kids are smiling. Of course I update my status only if something funny happened or we are doing something interesting. But I don’t consider it a lie by omission so much as a public service. For instance, Nicole pooped on the floor during bedtime three nights ago. I did not update my status. I did not post a picture. You’re welcome.<br /><br />Relaying our best moments isn’t new. Back when I wrote emails, I tried to fill them with mostly interesting and optimistic news. Before that, I wrote notes to my friends during my more boring classes. I tried to make them entertaining. And if I was going to go to the trouble of writing an actual letter and spending money on a stamp, you can be sure it had something worth sharing in it. Well, mostly. There was a brief time in my pre-teens when I sent a ton of letters to a friend that pretty much all said, “Hi, how are you? I am good. I am having dinner now. I have to go.” Sorry, Kelsey.<br />
<br />I like to think that even cavemen are guilty of sharing only the good stuff. That cave painting of Grog killing the mammoth with his spear? He probably sat on a rock for three weeks poking the dirt with a stick when he suddenly looked up and saw a really old Mammoth keeling over. That’s not exactly the kind of story you want to tell around the campfire though, so go ahead, Grog. Tell it like you wish it was.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBVmbKTXhm7D3UpoV7oAmRUIz3shOYQmU-L95RFwQ3SC78BMIXhIXwjLZgrcuak_YC3EF0vyGFc7mWzwNgYvoev56zoo3ByIfbVgJkz_FJWZ-r0N0c8uv5N92FOtE5QGEqGwe_LEbp0Y2r/s1600/allie+close+up.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBVmbKTXhm7D3UpoV7oAmRUIz3shOYQmU-L95RFwQ3SC78BMIXhIXwjLZgrcuak_YC3EF0vyGFc7mWzwNgYvoev56zoo3ByIfbVgJkz_FJWZ-r0N0c8uv5N92FOtE5QGEqGwe_LEbp0Y2r/s1600/allie+close+up.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The type of picture I usually take.</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXUsSgo9I3AMIs65wx_LG2_icZN8jyS1Pd_WoWK7AvW690aToerma2u9_MbWi3YJ3tz_Cr9uYTK6Wfd3NNqzMiiWTJaqHBIdMjpIASlGAiBCfeoWvg_kRhQGRTePfA51OE-gISCSGCUB-v/s1600/coco+close+up.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXUsSgo9I3AMIs65wx_LG2_icZN8jyS1Pd_WoWK7AvW690aToerma2u9_MbWi3YJ3tz_Cr9uYTK6Wfd3NNqzMiiWTJaqHBIdMjpIASlGAiBCfeoWvg_kRhQGRTePfA51OE-gISCSGCUB-v/s1600/coco+close+up.jpg" height="320" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Also I take these.</td></tr>
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I’m not saying use Facebook as a place to build your house of lies. But if you want to share just the good stuff, go ahead. If you want to share the more mundane happenings, do that too. I promise I won’t assume your life is perfect if you only post pictures of your family that look like they belong in a JCPenny catalog.<br /><br />I know your kids are not smiling all the time. I know that sometimes they are chasing each other with blankets wearing nothing but underpants on their heads and last night’s spaghetti on their faces. I know your cats and dogs are not always sleeping sweetly in boxes that are too small for them. Sometimes they are peeing in your shoe when you don’t pet them and leaving hairballs on your pillow. I know that your significant other isn’t always making you pancakes or fixing your sink. Sometimes he is just ‘helping’ by lifting his feet so you can vacuum under them.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZYCFZqYZ0QriJeNmXXpzAGzYOm1zn-Mus6n8qeDeympnu_wZBebWk5BYPGF2WCWDJxrPLQ-SXnZJsbdFtaXpRAAbCNyS9jjvwbmT1GjEDbye6FGyld4FJ1p5iLAsuimwmordwZaLNjNCS/s1600/not+amused.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZYCFZqYZ0QriJeNmXXpzAGzYOm1zn-Mus6n8qeDeympnu_wZBebWk5BYPGF2WCWDJxrPLQ-SXnZJsbdFtaXpRAAbCNyS9jjvwbmT1GjEDbye6FGyld4FJ1p5iLAsuimwmordwZaLNjNCS/s1600/not+amused.jpg" height="320" width="275" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sometimes my kids are cranky.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfaz3Zo2sw6uECmBIWkVBNqUYmQMNdT0RlQh8xYYOBV5ZBlbtPll7YnSB8g0CXalph8kpgBUWfz2rBy3GcoOozaY5cFIXAMM1_h5zXsPqjNbsF6x1P2poJQUqC88BK3CP4z99o0Nu3k4_l/s1600/coco+no+pants.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfaz3Zo2sw6uECmBIWkVBNqUYmQMNdT0RlQh8xYYOBV5ZBlbtPll7YnSB8g0CXalph8kpgBUWfz2rBy3GcoOozaY5cFIXAMM1_h5zXsPqjNbsF6x1P2poJQUqC88BK3CP4z99o0Nu3k4_l/s1600/coco+no+pants.jpg" height="320" width="243" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Often my kids don't wear pants.</td></tr>
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<br />Maybe instead of “stopping the lies” by posting “real (and shitty) family moments” on Facebook we can just acknowledge that no matter how many perfect-happy-shiny posts we make, nobody is perfect. We can concede that Facebook, like Fox News, rarely has the whole story.<br /><br />Please, keep posting all your sunny-happy-perfect-life-is-good pictures. Keep posting all your epic-fail-I-should-have-stayed-in-bed status updates. Keep sharing hilarious memes and serious news stories. Because let’s face it: the more you post the more time it takes me to catch up on all of it. And the more time I can waste on Facebook, the less time I have to do things that are actually productive. It’s pretty much win-win.Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519701220302400071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2614767874691033425.post-54971458425863382442014-02-11T13:13:00.000-08:002014-02-11T13:18:11.486-08:00The Book of Allison<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I have long considered myself to be agnostic. I’m not ballsy enough to disagree with the six billion people plus that believe in some higher power, but I’m also not willing to join the one billion plus atheists of the world and say that without a doubt there is no higher power. Is this a cop-out? Maybe. But whatever. I’m reserving judgment.<br />
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When it comes to the question of the existence of a god (or gods) my short answer is, “I don’t know.” Because who am I to argue that roughly two billion Christians are wrong? Or that one and a half billion Islams are right? Or that one billion Atheists are right? Or that any number of supporters for any given religion or non-religion are right or wrong? <br />
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What I will argue is that the question is moot. Whether or not there is a higher power should not affect the way that we live here on earth. We should strive to be good and kind. We should treat others in a way that we would like to be treated. We should help others when we are in the position to do so. I intend to teach my children these values without the aid of any specific religion. I want them to aim to be good and kind not in the hopes of being ‘saved’ or of a rewarding ‘after-life’ but because they are human beings and they are capable of making their choices responsibly.<br />
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Anyway, my point is, my kids and I don’t spend a whole lot of time discussing religion. We’ve spent countless hours talking about and demonstrating kindness, manners, tolerance and respect. We speak about valuing ourselves and others in an effort to raise kind little girls who will become passionate and considerate women. We spend even more hours answering the girls’ numerous and varied questions about everything under the sun. And sometimes those questions, or the answers to those questions, involve God and religion.<br />
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The first time God entered our conversations was about two years ago, when Allison asked where humans came from. Though I’m sure there are abundant explanations throughout the world, I’m really only familiar with two of the theories. I explained to Allie that some people believe that God created the first two humans, named Adam and Eve, and that other people believe that humans evolved from apes. Allison looked skeptical. It’s funny; when I simplified our origins down to those two choices, I could see which one my four year old, in her world of Disney and Santa and magic, found more plausible.<br />
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That’s when it dawned on me: being a Christian had the potential to make my life as a parent much easier. Instead of blundering through lengthy-sort-of-correct science based answers to questions like “Why is the sky blue?” and “How did Audrey’s guinea pig have babies?” I could simply say, “God did that.” When the kids inevitably ask why Haley/Kayley/Skyler from school can have a puppy/x-box/piercing I could say vaguely, “Well, God works in mysterious ways.” And one day when my teenage girls are crying that life is not going the way they thought it would and that they don’t know what to do, I could comfort them with the knowledge that God has a plan for them. <br />
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Having God around is kind of like having an elf-on-the-shelf all year long. Because if you hit your sister, God is watching. If you throw mommy’s antique drawer handle down the heater vent, God knows. And if you even think about calling that mean boy at the skating rink a name, God hears. Oh, and when you are finally old enough to go out on a date with a boy? God is watching that too. Obviously I get that Christianity, and any other organized religion, is not about easing the difficulties of parenting. Still, you can’t deny the perks.<br />
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Allison’s religious information as of yet has really been on a need-to-know basis. If she asks a question, I try to answer it as honestly and correctly as possible. She knows that many people believe in God, and that we should be quiet during the before dinner prayer at her grandparents’ house.<br />
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This past Christmas, her knowledge of Christianity grew exponentially. Every year, our neighbors set up a gargantuan Christmas light display complete with Santa, The Grinch, candy canes and a nativity scene. It was an unusually warm December morning before school that the girls ran across the cul-de-sac to see ‘the baby’.<br />
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“Who is that baby?” Allie asked.<br />
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“That’s baby Jesus. He was born on Christmas; a lot of people celebrate his birthday,” I replied.<br />
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“I have a birthday too,” announced Allison.<br />
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The short ride to school was peppered with questions.<br />
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“Will you tell me everything you know about the Baby G-fish?”<br />
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I explained that Jesus was a man who lived a long, long time ago and that he did many very kind things for all different types of people. I added that many people believe that Jesus is the son of God.<br />
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Allison thought for a moment. “Did Geee-zus ever get married?” she asked.<br />
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“No, he never did.”<br />
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“Oh. I bet there were a lot of women who wished they could marry him.” She paused.<br />
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“And men,” she added fairly. That’s my girl.<br />
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It was a few nights later that Allison, while we were all seated at the dinner table, announced that, “We could do a pray this year at Christmas Eve!”<br />
“Do you mean a prayer?” I asked.<br />
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“Yes! Well, it doesn’t have to be a pray. We could say the pledge of allegiance.”<br />
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I’m not proud of it, but I burst out laughing. Chris laughed too, until we noticed Allie hiding her head in her arms, clearly embarrassed. He recovered first. “Do you know the pledge of allegiance? “ he asked her, trying to coax her back out from behind her arms.<br />
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She recited the pledge flawlessly, and we praised her exuberantly in an attempt to make up for having laughed at her moments before. I think it was the abundant praise that resulted in the whole family joining hands around the Christmas tree practicing for the big night.<br />
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Allison and Chris looked up at the tree, straight faced, and began, “I pledge allegiance, to the flag, of the United States of America....” I glanced down at Coco, who was swaying back and forth slightly and mumbling, but staring respectfully at the tree. To my credit, I did not laugh audibly.<br />
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Later, while Allison worked diligently on creating our Christmas Flag, Chris pulled up a scene from National Lampoon’s Christmas on youtube which mirrored our ‘Christmas pledge.’ It was just as funny when it happened to them.<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/0ZcZVugtF6w?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br />
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The latest anecdote from the Book of Allison happened just a couple of weeks ago. We were in the car listening to the song, “You can’t get to heaven on Roller Skates.” Allison was singing along until she wasn’t:<br />
“Well of course you can’t get to heaven on roller skates! But you probably can in a car. With a trailer...in case you want to spend the night.”<br />
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Clearly, my daughters' religious information is not complete. But that's okay. They may decide to become Christian, agnostic, atheist or something else. And that’s okay too. I would love for the girls to one day take a class that examines some of the world’s religions, and heck, maybe I’d take it with them. Like my parents told me, “Education never hurt anyone.”<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWnYG6B_AeUQu1Vald1L2mXlgMxsTuboMFCno3yXRGUnUCsd7mqn1FnmzHtUh1P6SX3Fgos3Parlh4USY_Xui962Er6VHCV2YQP08eVbxePZJyMyfqZlbFOoiXGRYunzzOWrwVvO__BNMA/s1600/graduate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWnYG6B_AeUQu1Vald1L2mXlgMxsTuboMFCno3yXRGUnUCsd7mqn1FnmzHtUh1P6SX3Fgos3Parlh4USY_Xui962Er6VHCV2YQP08eVbxePZJyMyfqZlbFOoiXGRYunzzOWrwVvO__BNMA/s1600/graduate.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Education. See? Painless.</td></tr>
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Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519701220302400071noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2614767874691033425.post-27500019439797613552013-11-22T12:43:00.001-08:002013-11-22T12:43:11.604-08:00‘P’ is for Piss<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Study after study has touted the benefits of a family sharing at least one daily meal together. It should be a time where everyone can delight in good food and conversation; a time for modeling table manners and healthy eating habits while enjoying each other’s company.<br /><br />But the line between ‘should be’ and reality is pretty blurred at our house. We do manage to all sit down together for dinner on most nights, and sometimes the food is good and the conversation is enjoyable. Other nights, the food is hotdogs, milk gets spilled, Coco talks with her mouth full, Allison tattles on Coco for talking with her mouth full, and Chris and I spend half our time telling the kids to be polite and the other half wondering why we insist on this ‘quality’ family time in the first place.<br /><br />Last night, dinner was one of the other nights. Thursday nights often are. Allison has swim lessons and Nicole has pre-school, so we pretty much all roll in at the same time, hungry and tired. Well, Chris and I are usually tired. The girls, having somehow acquired boundless energy, make up for not seeing one another all day by chasing each other in circles around the table and alternately laughing and screaming like banshees until dinner is served.<br /><br />Fortunately, we are usually guaranteed at least two solid minutes of peace at the beginning of the meal while everyone digs in. It was just after this two minute reprieve that Coco finished pushing her macaroni around her plate and announced that she was ‘all done.’ “Allie done?” she asked hopefully. (We make the girls wait for each other before being excused from the table.) Allie shook her head.<br /><br />“Awwww, wait Allie,” said Nicole, resignedly. Of course, Nicole has never actually waited patiently for her sister to finish eating. Most nights, she just repeatedly asks, “Allie done?” every 17 seconds until Allie is, in fact, finished.<br /><br />Coco had only asked twice before she suddenly stood up in her chair. “Me WHOAA Daddy!” she shouted (which translates roughly as, “I’m as tall as Daddy!”)<br /><br />“Yes, good for you. Sit down, please,” I said. But from her ‘whoa, Daddy’ vantage point, she spotted the capital letter ‘P’ magnet on our fridge. This was clearly an exciting find for our three year old.<br /><br />Coco leaped out of her chair and galloped over to the fridge while shouting, “Hey! P! My P! My school!!!!”<br /><br />“Did you learn about P at school?” I asked. “Is P for Papa?”<br /><br />“NO!” she shouted back. “P piss!!!!”<br /><br />I looked at Chris. “Did she just say P is for piss?” We figured we must have misunderstood. “Is P for please?” I asked, because I thought that made more sense.<br /><br />“No, P piss!” she shouted again. Chris and I exchanged another look. “P is for push?”<br /><br />Nicole was beginning to get aggravated at our slowness. We continued to guess P words--”Pear? Piece? Pick? Pig?” but to no avail. Even Allison had a few guesses (Pumpkin! Paper!!!) Coco got madder and madder. She sighed. She yelled. She screamed, “No, P piss” over and over again.<br /><br />We asked her if she could act it out; she’s an extraordinary mime. No good. I tried a few more p-words, but Chris pointed out that I was making her even more agitated. He tried a different tact--lying. “Okay, P. We got it. We understand.”<br /><br />Nicole saw right thought that one. “NOOOOOOO,” she bellowed. “P PISS!!!” Then she rolled her eyes way back into her head and hurled the P across the floor. She grabbed her blanket, plopped down on the couch and popped her thumb in her mouth. It’s probably pretty stressful having such dimwitted parents.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzH3sg93MRD86Vi_ZB-fjQO-3sW1A2qAmty205MUIlIOabZBWsIylVyG0TCu_6zxokVrPHOwtIMIt7iq3KMgPciiXcLwt9ckfS3x5141rytTVpv8TOLvoQIKr2BkBa8G-YS9BcW5w5KJTJ/s1600/Sadcoco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzH3sg93MRD86Vi_ZB-fjQO-3sW1A2qAmty205MUIlIOabZBWsIylVyG0TCu_6zxokVrPHOwtIMIt7iq3KMgPciiXcLwt9ckfS3x5141rytTVpv8TOLvoQIKr2BkBa8G-YS9BcW5w5KJTJ/s320/Sadcoco.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little Miss Misunderstood</td></tr>
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<br />On the bright side, Nicole had her speech evaluation at the early childhood center, and we are hopeful that she will qualify for speech therapy. Maybe soon she’ll be able to tell us what P is really for.<br /><br />In the meantime, we’ll continue to have our expert prescribed family dinners. It may not always be peaceful, but dinner at the Claussen’s is certainly never dull.Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519701220302400071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2614767874691033425.post-49640087449623253352013-05-03T15:57:00.000-07:002013-05-03T15:57:00.802-07:00How I broke my foot, and Other Lame StoriesLast Tuesday I broke my foot. I’ve tried to come up with a good story about how it happened, but nothing really stuck. Me playing sports is pretty unbelievable, as is me rescuing someone or performing some other heroic act. There really aren’t any other ‘cool’ ways to break your foot, so I’ll just stick to the truth:<br /><br />I was walking. I had put Allie’s swim clothes in the washer in the mud room, and I turned around to go back into the kitchen. All of a sudden, I was sitting on the floor in excruciating pain. My best guess is that I somehow miss-stepped and instead of using the bottom of my foot like most people, I stepped on the top of my foot. I realize this implies that it was my own weight that caused two bones in my foot to break. Believe me, if there was another way to tell it, I would.<br /><br />Anyway, as I was sitting on the floor in tears because of the pain, Chris was on the phone and the girls were running around gleefully. Allie stopped her gleeful running long enough to say, “Why are you sitting on the floor, Mommy?”<br /><br />I told her I hurt my foot, to which she replied, “Oh,” and continued running around like a crazy girl. A few minutes later she stopped in the doorway again. “Mommy? Why are you still sitting there?”<br /><br />It was at this point that I decided Chris wasn’t going to get off the phone anytime soon, and that I would receive little sympathy from my daughters. I crawled to the couch and asked Allison to bring me a bag of ice.<br /><br />Only I should have been more specific because about ten minutes later she arrived proudly holding a gallon ziplock with two lonely pieces of ice inside. By this time, I had done some research on my phone and found that the urgent care center near our house was open for just 30 more minutes.<br /><br />Chris got off the phone and found me in a whole lot of pain on the couch. I told him the happy news about still being able to make it to urgent care if we hurried. He looked at my foot and said, “Are you sure we should just rush right in? Why don’t we wait until the morning?”<br /><br />I would have kicked him except I was in too much pain. Instead, I crawled up the stairs, took a couple of Advil, and begged for more ice.<br /><br />The next morning, Chris stayed home from work to watch the girls, and a good friend of mine took me to urgent care. I told her she could just drop me off, but sweet girl that she is, she insisted on staying. Three hours later, after urgent care, x-rays, and orthopedics, it was confirmed that I had fractured my 3rd and 4th metatarsals, and I was given a walking ‘boot’ to wear for the next six weeks. The doctor said that I could walk on my heel, swim, and ride a recumbent bike if it was tolerable. It definitely could have been worse.<br /><br />I might have scoffed at the idea of swimming or using a recumbent bike except for the fact that I had joined a gym a month earlier. I didn’t want to waste the money I paid for the membership, so I packed my wildly unattractive swim suit and headed to Gold’s Gym.<br /><br />After 20 minutes on the bike (which is harder than you’d think for a machine that keeps you in the exact same position you’d be in if you were on the couch with your feet on the coffee table), I checked out the pool schedule. Water aerobics was starting in just 5 minutes.<br /><br />I had planned on swimming laps, though I use the term ‘swimming’ loosely. I can’t really swim in the sense that I use alternate arm strokes while keeping my face mostly under water except for taking breaths. I swim more in the sense that I can be in water that is over my head without drowning. I do this weird modified breast stroke where my head is always above water and I kick both my feet out at the same time. I imagine I look like a large frog, only more awkward and, well, less green.<br /><br />I figured water aerobics couldn’t be any worse than that, and it might even be better. I joined about 30 others in the pool. As anyone who has witnessed a water aerobics class may guess, I was the youngest by about 40 years. Also, I had the perkiest boobs, a title I certainly couldn’t claim in the larger gym population. Score.<br />
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<br /><br />The class was really pretty fun, and at times, even strenuous. The truly fabulous part was that due to the acoustics in the pool area, I couldn’t understand a word the instructor was saying. I’m pretty sure everyone else, whose ears were 40 years older than mine, couldn’t hear anything either. So for the whole hour, we all just sort of flailed our arms and legs about in our closest approximation of the instructors’ demonstrations. It was such a hoot that I may even continue to attend the classes after my foot as healed.<br /><br />Speaking of things I may continue to do after my foot has healed: I LOVE my walking boot. At first I thought it was really uncomfortable, but it turns out that it just felt uncomfortable because walking on a broken foot hurts. Go figure.<br /><br />As my fractures have begun to heal, I’ve come to adore my boot. Around the home, I wear my boot on my right foot and an Eddie Bauer ‘wicked good clog‘ on my left, and I have to admit, the boot gives the clog a run for it’s money. It is just so spacious, what with it’s velcro straps and all. Also, it extends a good inch and a half past my foot, which means it has saved me, on several occasions, from stubbing my toe on the kitchen island. What more could one ask for in footwear?!?<br /><br />I’m thinking of ordering another for my left foot. Of course, after the overalls incident of 2003, the fashion police probably won’t allow it. <br />Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519701220302400071noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2614767874691033425.post-66199357219584839012013-04-04T14:23:00.000-07:002013-04-04T14:23:38.149-07:00The Unintentional Lock-in<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I know I said I would try not to wait four months before blogging again, and I didn’t. I waited five. But something happened today that is, most definitely, blog-worthy. Facebook saved my life. Or at least about 5 or 6 hours of my life...<br /><br />Today is Thursday, so Allie is at pre-school. One of the main perks of pre-school (aside from Allie getting an education and all) is that I have Nicole’s nap time completely to myself. I can do whatever I want: Read. Clean. Watch TV that does not include weirdly-intelligent monkeys.<br /><br />You can imagine my excitement when noon-thirty rolled around, and I announced to Coco that it was nap time. She grabbed her blankie, two stuffed puppies and her sippy cup and headed upstairs with me.<br /><br />After I changed her diaper and she had set up her ‘lovies’ in the exact right place, we were ready to read her story. For the last three plus months, the only story she has asked for is, “Jingle, The Husky Pup.” It’s a sweet story, but anything read two times a day for three straight months can get a bit old. Especially since Nicole is so particular about the way we read it. She has several items on each page that she must point to, and if we miss one, she will insist on going back so it can be properly pointed out. Also, the door to her room must be closed while we read.<br /><br />I thought nothing of it when Nicole got up and carefully shut the door as I hurriedly read her story. When we made it to the end, and Nicole had pointed out the last item in the book (candy cane), I covered her up and gave her a kiss. Then, as I do every day, I closed the blackout shade and walked to the door toward sweet freedom.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Perpetrator: 2'6'' tall. 31 lbs. Brown Eyes, Blonde Hair.</td></tr>
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<br /><br />Only sweet freedom was nowhere to be found. Because the door knob wouldn’t turn. Coco, who has never until this day successfully locked or unlocked a door, had locked us in. I turned it a little more fiercely, and panic began to set in. I had left my phone downstairs, and the only key to our doors is kept above the bathroom door in the hall.<br /><br />I turned on the light, which is about when Coco noticed something was up. She got out from under her blanket and walked over to the door knob. She did some fierce turning herself, and then looked at me and said, “uh-oh Mama.” Uh-oh indeed.<br /><br />I tried to think of something long, thin and pointy that might be in the girls’ room. But the girls are 5 and 2, so we spend a lot more time making sure pointy things are <i>out</i> of their room rather than <i>in</i>.<br /><br />Thankfully, Nicole had been doing some thinking of her own. She grabbed one of her favorite board books and shoved it between the door knob and the frame. This technique, as you may have imagined, was quite unsuccessful. She abandoned the attempt and went to Allie’s nightstand where she retrieved a pair of sunglasses and a flashlight. Helpful, that one.<br /><br />In the meantime, I found a single artificial flower on the girls’ dresser. I popped the bud off, and hopefully poked the stem into the lock. No such luck. The hangers in the girls’ closet were too big, and the posts in the door were too tight to move. I had pretty much exhausted all hope of getting out of there without assistance.<br /><br />This was pretty problematic for several reasons. First, Chris was supposed to be working late, and he wouldn’t be home until 6:30 pm. Secondly, Allie’s pre-school closes at 6:00, and they would have been pretty worried if nobody came to get her. Thirdly, I had to pee.<br /><br />I looked over at Coco, who had apparently given up on escape and had decided to take a nap. I turned off the light and then remembered something which would become crucial to my getaway: Allie has an iPhone. My dad gave her his old one so that she can listen to music at night, play games, and take pictures. It doesn’t have a sim card, but it does have wi-fi. Thank goodness for spoiled five year olds.<br /><br />I turned it on and began face-timing every one of her contacts. It didn’t take long because she only has three: her Grammy, Opsi, and her Auntie Laura. Sadly, none of them answered. I sent a few iMessages as well before recalling my most favorite app in all the world: Facebook.<br /><br />It only took a couple of minutes to download the app and login, and just like that, I was connected to the world again. I posted this plea for help: <i>Umm--Coco just locked me in her room (we have the lock turned around for Allie). I have nothing but Allie's iPod. I need someone to call Chris or if you live near by let me out!!! Message me if you can and ill get you his number or our garage code. Facebook world don't fail me now!! ;)</i><br /><br />I tagged a few friends who live in the area in the hopes of expediting things a bit. It only took a couple of minutes before the comments and offers of assistance began coming in (thank you, fellow Facebook addicts, thank you).<br /><br />I guess I should note that my Facebook status was not particularly well-worded. Mainly because it made it sound as if I was inside the room while Coco was running pell mell about the house. Had this been the case, I think she would have a) gobbled up all of the jelly beans she could find b) brought me my phone, or c) managed to unlock the door. But this was not the case, so my apologies to anyone who was worried about my child’s safety during this whole ordeal.<br /><br />I should also note, before anyone calls the Child Abuse Hotline, that we never lock Allie in her room. Well, hardly ever. We haven’t even had to threaten it in ages, but it was pretty effective in getting Allie to stay in her room at bedtime.<br /><br />Anyway, some good friends of mine called Chris almost immediately and explained my predicament. They also stopped by the house and tried to use our garage code to open the door. But fate was against me, and the door wouldn’t open.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The attempted break-in.</td></tr>
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<br /><br />Being the marvelous friends they are, and after checking for any unlocked windows, they headed to Walmart to get a new battery for the keyless entry on the garage, or a screw driver or something to toss up to me through Cole’s window.<br /><br />At that point, there was not much to do but wait. I perused Facebook a bit and discovered a pretty cute way to make a birthday cake. I messaged a bit with my sister and browsed Pinterest. I even searched for ‘locked in.’ The results included a heart shaped egg on toast, a pair of earrings and a tub of beer. Huh. Who would have guessed?<br /><br />Then I heard a door open and footsteps downstairs. I have never been quite so overjoyed to hear an unknown person inside my house. The girls’ bedroom door opened seconds later, and there stood my hubby, Chris. My knight-in-shining-armor (or rather my knight in jeans and a polo shirt).<br /><br />Thanks to good friends and spouses for making this a blog about how much I love Facebook...and not a frightening tale about how I yelled for help out the window for three hours only to have to pee in one of Nicole’s diapers while Allie sat forlorn and seemingly forgotten at her preschool. Yes. Thank you.Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519701220302400071noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2614767874691033425.post-58915328213205378242012-11-12T22:06:00.000-08:002012-11-12T22:06:12.853-08:00Coco the Two Year Old<br />
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I realize it’s been a very long time since I’ve last written. I think it’s mostly because it has been very hard to top the <a href="http://happylanddrive.blogspot.com/2012_07_01_archive.html">Costco/Penis</a> incident of July. But if something that eventful hasn’t happened in the past four months, it probably never will. Knock on wood. I may as well get back to blogging the more mundane details of life at the Claussen’s.</div>
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Nicole turned two on October 6th, and while her vocabulary has not significantly grown, she has. The doctor claims that at 34.5” tall, she is taller than just 55% of her peers, but that can’t be right. The kid towers over her fellow two year olds. She can open door knobs. She can reach the TV in our entertainment center, and she turns it off and on at will. But her height is nothing compared to her weight. Her pediatrician bluntly told us that she weighs as much as the average three year old (she’s 28 lbs 9 oz). Add to that a shriek that can shatter windows, and you have a force to be reckoned with. A very cute force.<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nicole, the not-so-terrible-two-year-old</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Cole still sucks her thumb and has a purple ‘blankie’ that must go everywhere with us. Anytime she is hurt, gets in trouble, or receives a stern look, her lower lip begins to tremble, and she pulls her hands up to her chest, the sign for blanket in ASL. I know eventually we’ll want to break the thumb-sucking-blankie-carrying habit, but right now it has its definite advantages: A. She sleeps like a champ (12 hours a night, 3 hours for naps) B. She is easily placated and C. It’s just really darn cute. Not everyone can pull off the ‘Linus’ look, but Nicole definitely can.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cole, with her thumb, her blankie, and her Allie.</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">A few more of Cole’s favorite things: babies, Tow Mater, football and cheese-balls. She loves carrying baby dolls around, and she has a few favorites. Mostly, the naked babies. Nicole loves to undress her dolls, and few things make her happier than carrying a naked baby around by its ankle. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Tow Mater, the push toy Nicole got for Christmas last year, is her very favorite mode of transportation. She can really fly on that guy too; she motored all the way to the elementary school and back, which is close to a mile. No easy feat, and Mater is looking more and more like Mater everyday. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coco with her faithful steed.</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Her love of football may really just be a love of staying up late watching TV with Mom and Dad, but she does raise her hands in the air and yell, ‘ball ball’ at the top of her lungs every time a game is on. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Oddly, ‘ball-ball’ is also her way of saying cheese-ball. Fortunately for me I can differentiate the two because when she is talking about cheese-balls she always points at the neighbors’ house, where she and the spherical cheetoh were first introduced. Almost every time we walk by, she points at their front door and says, ‘ball ball’ in a hopeful sort of way. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not quite as revered as the cheese-ball, but still pretty good.</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">“Curious George” has become a source of constant background noise in our house, as Nicole adores him. She throws her hands in the air and makes monkey noises until we turn it on for her. I think she can really relate to him as their communication skills are almost identical. She gets particularly excited whenever the man with the yellow hat comes on; she will come and get me yelling ‘ooh, ooh, aah, Dada!’ Allie always jumps in at this point and explains that George’s real daddy is not a man but a monkey. She is almost five and is an expert in most things.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In fact, Allie is an expert in so many things that I simply don’t have time to get into them all now. That, my friends, will have to wait for the next blog entry...which will hopefully not be four months from now.</span></div>
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Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519701220302400071noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2614767874691033425.post-91772857820896020212012-07-15T13:24:00.002-07:002012-07-15T13:26:33.712-07:00Sunday Morning MayhemFor us, Sunday morning is often Costco day. It’s a ludicrous thing to do. “Let’s go to Costco on the most crowded day of the week with a four year old and an almost two year old. That will be so much fun!” said no one ever.<br />
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But to Costco we go. I am a creature of habit, and I like to do my shopping for the week on Sundays, crowds be darned. I had the girls completely ready to go by 9:30 AM in the hopes we could pull in by ten and beat most of the after-church mob. To my knowledge, Chris was still sleeping, so I sent the girls in to say, “goodbye” before we left.<br />
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I was mistaken. Chris wasn’t actually sleeping, but using the bathroom. With the door wide open. I got there in time to witness this sequence of events: <br />
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A. Nicole ran up and threw her little arms around Daddy’s left leg.<br />
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B. Allison accosted him from the other side, simultaneously waving and trying to figure out how it was possible for one to pee standing up. <br />
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C. Chris turned to block Allie’s view and at the same time tried to dislodge the small toddler attached to his calf.<br />
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When I was finished laughing, I herded the girls downstairs and in to the mud room to put on shoes. That is when Allison looked me in the eye and asked evenly, “Can you tell me what boys have growing out of their bottoms?” She placed her fist in the appropriate place to clarify. (I should explain: everything between the belly button and the top of the legs, on the back or front, is known to Allie simply as, “the bottom”. Thus far, I have not corrected her.)<br />
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I responded as casually as possible, “That’s called a penis.” I hoped that I might get lucky and the conversation would be over, but I could see the wheels turning behind her big brown eyes. That’s when she dropped the bomb: “Mommy, will you please tell me everything you know about the penis?”<br />
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I fumbled for one more way out. “Um, sure honey. In the car.” I thought she might forget by the time we got everybody buckled in, but no such luck.<br />
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The moment I put the car in reverse, Allie’s little voice rang out clearly, “Ok. Let’s talk about the penis now.”<br />
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I wanted to be as honest as possible, without telling her more than she needed to know. All those commercials about how important it is to have open communication with your children scared the bejeezus out of me. What if I did it wrong and she felt like she couldn’t speak to me about these things, and she ended up pregnant and STDd at 14?!? I should have called that hotline when I had the chance.<br />
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I settled for telling her not everything<i> I</i> know about the penis, but what I thought <i>she</i> should know at this age. Basically, that boys have it and girls don’t, and that it is where their ‘pee-pee’ comes out. I also tried to emphasize that while it was perfectly okay for her to talk about it with mommy or daddy, it wasn’t something she needed to discuss with other adults or her friends at this time.<br />
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There were a few more questions, but thankfully, Allie is a four year old and has the attention span of one, so she suddenly asked, “Mommy, can you tell me about how my heart works?”<br />
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Honestly, I couldn’t. But I gratefully launched into a barrage of every detail I could remember from highschool anatomy class until the conversation took another turn. “Mommy, is it true that at every birthday I get more toys? And more cards?” Thank goodness for the four year old attention span.<br />
<br />
It was about this time that we pulled into the parking lot of Costco, and we waited with the other heathens to charge the doors at promptly ten o’clock. The shopping trip went much as it usually does, with a lot of “Can we get that?”, “No.”, and a side of “Nicole, stop poking your finger into the chocolate chip cookies.”<br />
<br />
We made it through the check out line (and the line for people who forgot to use their coupons) before getting in line for our celebratory hotdogs. Allison asked for her half-dollars, which she had earlier stashed in the pocket of my elastic waisted shorts that I’ve been living in since I was 9 months pregnant with Nicole. I distractedly told her to wait a minute as I attempted to juggle Nicole, two soda cups, and two hotdogs.<br />
<br />
I was about to fill the first drink at the beverage station when I felt my shorts slide down to my ankles. Allison, in her effort to retrieve her precious half-dollars from my pocket, had pantsed me. It’s possible that if I weren’t holding so many things, I could have pulled my shorts back up with out any one noticing. It’s possible that I could have set everything down and quietly pulled them back up with just a few people noticing. But in my shock and horror of finding myself in the food court of Costco without any pants, I yelled, “ALLISON!!” <br />
<br />
I did not use my inside, six inch voice. I did not use my six foot voice. I idiotically bellowed, “Allison,” loudly enough that everyone in the crowded store turned to stare. At least I assume they did. I was too busy being mortified to get an accurate head count. But I guarantee at least a few of the ‘after-church’ crowd now has an image burned into their brain that they wish they didn’t.<br />
<br />
I guess I shouldn’t have laughed at Chris’ predicament this morning. Karma’s a b#%^&.<br />
<br />Rebeccahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09519701220302400071noreply@blogger.com7