Day 3: Pseudofail

Well, that didn't take long. Three days in and I'm already posting what I like to call a "placeholder" post. Sigh. 

I was feeling uninspired this afternoon while they were napping, and am already paying for the recent increased typing I've been doing on my phone (wrist, you are no good to me!). So I figured I'd wait till they were down tonight and punch something out on my computer. But then, but then...

Daylight Saving Time, that foul, obnoxious bit of nonsense, ended. Seriously, whomever thought up that gem did NOT have children. Bastard. No, wait. That's not having a father. Asshole. That one's equal opportunity. 

So, they held out nearly till their "normal" naptime, but only slept two out of their usual three hours. And then, terrible parents that we are, we didn't do bedtime till after Sunday Night Football. I know, I know. We're literally the worst. 

Anyway, our resident goblin royalty was definitely overtired, so much so that even the no-fail Daddy Method, well, failed. 

So a quick post from bed will have to suffice tonight. 

Sleep tight, all. Enjoy your Monday morning sleep in. 

That is, unless you have kids. In which case... 

I feel your pain. 

Goodnight Moonigans

It's nice to have really important parenting preferences in common with your partner, such as which book to read at bedtime. Of course, once the beebs are older, we won't really have a say in the matter, so it's imperative that we get in as much reading of the (age-appropriate) books of our choosing now while they're still amenable to us making important decisions for them--such as which book to read at bedtime.

Lucky for The Barbarian and me, that choice was a no-brainer: Goodnight Moon. I mean, right? Are we wrong here? That book could in no way ever be improved upon because it is perfection itself. The cadence, the rhyming, the mood set by the illustrations, the simplicity. If I could move into a book, it would be that one. I'd even eat the mush. 

So, you would think us reading a bedtime story to our kids would be fairly straightforward and rote, but being that it's us, it's rarely that simple. 

To begin with, we needed to figure out who read what, because this was not something either of us wanted to be left out of (yep, I totally just ended a sentence that way--deal with it). And it took some trial and error because of the varying layouts of the pages. Sometimes there's a line on each facing page, sometimes there are two. Sometimes there are two lines on one page and none on the other. And sometimes there's only one line on one page and that's it. It was hard to find a rhythm. And would we always read it the same way each time so that we always had the same lines? Or would we change things up every once in a while? I mean, clearly this nightly experience will have an enormous impact on the development of our children, so we had to get it right. 

Eventually we settled on a nice pattern, and you'd think that might be the end of the story. But it's not. Why? Well, because apparently I'm not very good at patterns. Or taking turns. Or remembering whose turn it is. Or focusing my attention for the length of a simple board book I know by heart. 

Why? Because babies, that's why. They're clearly distracting. That's sort of their whole schtick. Obviously it's bedtime when we read our bedtime story, so they're sleepy, and when they're sleepy, they often want to nurse. But then they get distracted by the story (see? I'm not the only who gets distracted in this house) and want to crawl into The Barbarian's lap (we sit next to each other on the couch, but he always holds the book--if I try to hold it, things really fall apart). They switch places a lot or sometimes wander off or are seriously just so damn adorable, I forget what we're doing and just stare at them. It happens. It's not my fault. Biology or something. 

Anyway, The Barbarian NEVER seems to be affected by any of this, so I'm always the one looking like an asshole because he'll read his line and wait for me to read mine, but I'll have forgotten we were even reading a story in the first place and wonder why he's staring at me. Or I'll get pissy because he stole my line and he'll point out that I stole his the previous page. Or I'll have the last two lines before turning the page, but I'll only read one and then wonder what the holdup is. Seriously, I'm the worst. Who has that much trouble with a board book?

The best nights are when ridiculous things happen that then become part of the ritual of reading the book, though. For us, of course. The beebs have zero clue yet how awesome and amazing their parents really are--but boy will they be proud when they figure it out. 

For example, early on, when the beebs were still far too young to be into it, we were sitting on our bed reading the book and the beebs were crawling around, paying little attention. At one point, King Toad Agooga crawled into my lap, and, because his timing is impeccable, while I was reading quite possibly my favourite line about the "quiet old lady whispering...", he stuck his entire hand in my mouth just as I opened it to say, "hush." What came out, then, was more of a guttural, "hoacgh." I'll never forget The Barbarian's face as he looked over to enquire what the hell I was on about. I, of course, was already laughing my ass off and it's quite possible we had an extremely difficult time finishing the story that night because, well, because laughing. But it's totally become a thing, and every few nights, one or the other--or both at the same time if our brains are tuned correctly--say "hoacgh" instead of "hush." And always with added emphasis, leaning in and side-glancing at each other while trying not to laugh. The beebs don't seem to know the difference in pronunciation yet, so we don't get called out for it. And who can blame them? It's subtle. 

My new favourite, though, happened just recently. It's probably my favourite because this time, it really was The Barbarian being ridiculous for a change. We were reading along in our usual manner when I realized I didn't know whose line it was. Like literally, I couldn't remember if he had just read a line or if I had. Two seconds previous. Who does that? So I sort of glanced over at The Barbarian with a confused look on my face, and apparently, that signaled to him that, since it was indeed my turn, I simply couldn't remember my line. You know, the one printed on the page a foot or two in front of my face. So what does the ever helpful man do? He begins pantomiming the line--"goodnight comb"--by mouthing it and pretending he's running a comb through his dreads (because that's even possible). The absolute best part was the wide-eyed, nodding, encouraging face he donned to do this, like I was a frightened child onstage who really had forgotten my line, he attempting to jog my memory from the wings. 

I totally lost it. Who IS that guy? And of course now I start giggling several pages ahead of that line in anticipation of remembering how absurdly he handled the situation.

But then, who am I to judge? I can't even be bothered to remember if I've just spoken out loud or not.

And that, my friends, is a special kind of crazy.

The end.

NaBloPoMo

So, I'm doing this. Starting today. All month. 

What is "this?" This is National Blog Posting Month, a commitment made with BlogHer to post to your blog every day for the month of November, to help get you in the groove of writing every day, and put yourself out there for all the world to see if you so choose. And it just so happens that I did so choose to do that last bit. What the actual fuck.

And did you catch the (not exactly but I like the phrase) middle part? EVERY. DAY. Every single one of them. Today, tomorrow, the next day, the day after that--all the way till 30 Nov. That's, wait... 30 DAYS of consecutive blog posts. From me. Mrs. I'm Not Even Going to Average Out My Posts to Give Comparison to How Few I Normally Do a Month Because That Would Be Embarrassing. And I never do anything to embarrass myself in some alternate reality that in no way exists. 

Anyway. So, yeah. I've been saying that I'd like to be posting regularly, and I think once a day is pretty regular (at least for some things...pooping, yes...blinking, not so much), so I've taken on this challenge to help encourage me in that department. I don't even want to think about how I feel regarding the possibility of the citizens of the internets at large reading my blog, though. 

...

So I won't. And maybe they won't. Who knows?

So there you have it. Lots and lots from me this month. Of varying quality, to be sure. But maybe I'll take the opportunity to tell the story of King Toad Agooga and The Goblin Queen, and that should be pretty neato. 

Maybe. 

I make no promises.   

I crack myself up

I do. All the time. Just ask The Barbarian.

But having kids adds a whole new dimension to it. Because when you are at home all day with your kids, the possibilities for ridiculousness are constant. Why? Because kids are RIDICULOUS. Add in a less than normal mama (vastly less than normal?), and seriously. Ridiculousness abounds.

Like yesterday, for example (you knew there'd be an example, right?). We had a loooooooong night previous for most likely teething-related reasons, and we were all a bit tired and fussy yesterday. Luckily, Grandma and Grandpa Walrus were here in the morning to keep them entertained while I cleaned the kitchen (cooking=dishes...am I the only one who sees something unfair in this scenario?) and started in on the junk room our bedroom, my current project (don't even ask). They ended up taking an extremely decent nap after that (near three hours, The Goblin Queen thankfully going down again for an additional hour after waking up partway through), but the remainder of the afternoon and early evening before The Barbarian got home (after being stuck in horrendous traffic) was very hit or miss. I was trying to get a shepherd's pie in the oven for dinner--an AMAZING shepherd's pie by Alton Brown, introduced to us by a friend who delivered meals to us while both of us were on bedrest during our pregnancy because WE HAVE AWESOME FRIENDS--and it was definitely a performance in several acts.

I tried distracting them with all manner of fun activities (okay, maybe only two) using one of their current favourite items, pompoms. I got down two egg cartons from the stash we keep on top of the fridge (with the intention of giving them to my mom in order for her to more easily gift out her chickens' eggs to the family, of course, but in reality, we stash them there for months and quite possibly years on end until people begin asking about the dust-covered collection and we're forced to just recycle the lot out of embarrassment) and poured some pompoms in a bowl and showed them how nicely they fit in the little egg cups. They thought this was pretty neat, putting them in and taking them out, and trying to close the egg cartons, and even turning the cartons upside down and squishing them in the spaces between the bottoms of the egg cups. But seriously, it lasted a grand total of four and a half minutes before they were clamoring for me again. Dude. Toddlers.

So I ripped the last two paper towels off the roll in the kitchen and scrounged in the bathroom trash for empty toilet paper rolls (yes, my children play with bathroom trash--it strengthens the immune system) so I could then spend five minutes searching for the painter's tape in order to tape said empty cardboard tubes onto the wall at various heights in order for The Goblin Queen and King Toad Agooga to make pompoms slide down the tubes of their own accord after being shown how this amazingness worked by their oh-so-dedicated mama. Of course, that's not what happened at all after my enthusiastic demonstration. They immediately ripped the tubes off the wall, KTA marching about shouting through one, and TGQ wandering over to one of their current empty cardboard boxes ("baby traps," as The Barbarian calls them) and deciding it was vastly more entertaining to throw the pompom still clutched in her hand into the box with an ecstatic exclamation in gibberish. But really, can you blame her? 

I hurriedly escaped back to the kitchen but was found moments later by an extremely needy TGQ. I was determined to push through as much as I could, though, and so we began our "kitchen dance," her alternating sitting on my feet, crawling through my legs, and grabbing my pants in iron fists while digging in her heels--all of which combine to make it near impossible to get to and from the island, the sink, and the stove. This dance is performed to the popular tune of "Fussy, Demanding, Pathetic Toddler." It's a classic. And this version of the dance is actually only the beginner/intermediate level. Why? BECAUSE THERE WAS ONLY ONE TINY HUMAN PERFORMIMG THE PART OF THE TINY HUMAN. We sell tickets to the full show. It's intense. 

Anyway, after fucking up the recipe slightly due to, ahem, being distracted, and totally getting outwardly frustrated at said source of distraction because of it (SIGH), I got to a point where I could pick her up for the remaining fine minutes of simmering and stirring until I was at a stopping point and we could go nurse. However, she then proceeded to do that most endearing of small child activities wherein she demanded to be picked up, then flung and wriggled her little body as if to say she wanted down, then immediately lost her shit upon being put down, only to be picked back up so she could begin the routine again. WHY DO THEY DO THAT? I eventually got outwardly frustrated with her again, even louder and more forceful than previously (BIGGER SIGH). 

So by the time we made it out of the kitchen and met up with KTA on the couch to nurse, I was, how you say, OVER IT. But they snuggled in close, one on each side, and happily and with great relief on the part of TGQ, nursed. And the vast majority of my feelings of frustration evaporated. Nursing's pretty awesome like that. 

And when I'm not feeling like I want to attach my children to a wall with huge strips of velcro to ensure their safety while I abandon them for the fresh air and emptiness of the patio with a tasty adult beverage, I'm more apt to crack myself up. So when TGQ stopped nursing and pulled my shirt down over the nipple, looking up at me and waiting with that gleam in her eye and little smile on her face for the perfect moment to reveal said nipple to the familiar exclamation, upon the final reveal, I yelled, "PEEKABOOBIE!" and sat on the couch laughing hysterically at myself under the gaze of two highly unimpressed toddlers. 

The end. 

I'm not very good at this whole thing

Which is hilarious because it's not for lack of things to say. Truly. The Barbarian has always said he enjoys just listening to me talk (he's not alone in this statement either). I think he has to say that, though, right? Because we're married? I don't know what the hell those other people's excuses are exactly. Weirdos.

So I'm pretty sure I mentioned last time something about encouraging King Toad Agooga and The Goblin Queen to nap on their own so I could have some free time during the day to do things like, say, write blog posts.

...

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!!

Basically, that hasn't happened. At all. Even once.

Why? Because SLEEP. That's why. We have spent the past 14 months doing everything we can to get them TO sleep, that the thought of doing something I know full well will INHIBIT their sleep makes me a bit...ill. I just can't bring myself to start the process. Any process.

The process is key too, because really, I have zero clue what this "process" should look like. Oddly (or rather, not oddly in the least), I've seen two parents post about this exact thing in groups on Facebook during the past few days, one a mama of twins. How the hell do you get your toddler used to napping on his or her own if they're used to napping with you (and boobie) there? Beats the shit out of me.

Honestly, I think I could handle the process with just one--as haughty and obnoxious as that must come across to parents struggling with this issue with just one child. For me, it's just a logistics issue. Unlatching a baby from the boobie and inching away until you're free of floppy arms and legs, then (somewhat) silently rolling or scooching over and slipping off the bed is doable to me. But how do you do that when there's a baby on both sides? If I get extremely wickedly lucky, they both eventually pop off the boobie and roll away a bit of their own accord. That makes things much easier.

So. Ask me how often that actually happens? Mmmm, hmmm.

Anyway. Blah, blah, blah, sleep, blah, blah, blah.

What else? Well, Autumn, that's what else. (And yes, I capitalize the seasons because they should be capitalized. I'm not even alone in this thinking. Back me up here, people.) Although our Autumn so far has consisted of 80-degree days, the nights and especially mornings have been fairly chilly and we finally procured some adorable fuzzy slippers for KTA and TGQ (courtesy of Nana) to protect their feet from our mostly uncarpeted house. They, however, don't grasp the concept of cold bare feet versus warm slippered feet, so they have far more fun taking them off. They do then invariably attempt to immediately put them back on, but, well, you know. We're still working on that.

I'm also forcing my love of Autumn cooking and baking on them, admittedly with mixed results. They LOVE the apples slices cooked in coconut oil and sprinkled with cinnamon. And even though I started that months ago, we had taken a break from it and it just seems appropriately Autumn, no? If given sliced raw apple, which they do like, they'll maybe eat a slice or two each. When cooked this way, they will literally go through an entire apple between the two of them. They. Love. It.

I also made them some pumpkin pancakes (after searching for a recipe that wasn't completely laden with sugar so as not to upset The Barbarian and his rabid anti-sugar ways), and they totally dug those. The recipe made an enormous batch of silver dollar pancakes, so I made them all and froze them for easy breakfasts and snacks. Sometimes I do awesome things like that. Sometimes.

Last week I made some persimmon bread, which was DELICIOUS, but they were so-so on it. Ditto the butternut squash bars I made a few days ago, which again, I thought were delightful. I had wanted to try a butternut squash yeast bread with some of the puree I have left, but realized I was out of yeast--which goes to show how long it's been since I've baked regularly. For shame. However, I think I will go ahead and make more pancakes with the squash instead of pumpkin, and maybe even some pumpkin bread with squash puree substituted. My Memere's pumpkin bread recipe is ridonculously delicious and I'm interested to see how it would be with the butternut squash. And dammit, it's that time of year, okay?

So, yeah. Lots of other things too. But I'll save more for later because that's how this whole thing works, right?

That is, if I come back anytime soon.

Hmmmm.

Thwarted

Damn arthritis.

Seriously. I hate it. It's obnoxiously annoying. Which is a pretty redundant phrase, but arthritis is pretty redundantly stupid, so it fits.

Or something.

Okay, it's not like I was super gung-ho on the writings of the blog posts, but I at least did more than one, and possibly even did more than one a month (I'm too lazy to even go verify that, however), so at least it was more than nothing. And actually, I was super gung-ho. In my head. But getting what's in my head to translate into reality can be a problem. Hence the lack of posts. See how neat that wraps up to be? You missed me, didn't you?

Anyway.

Thwarted. By the damn arthritis.

Osteoarthritis, to be exact. Mostly in the base joint of my thumbs, and more so in my right hand because, well, you know. I'm right-handed and all. It seems to be genetic, as my mama has the same issue, and it seems to be related to our double-jointedness. Bending my thumbs back ridiculously far at the first joint is my circus cred, for sure.

And that's obviously how I learned to use my thumbs, as that position is my strongest, most natural grip. My arthritis began flaring here and there in my mid-twenties when I would use the joint that way for prolonged periods or with a lot of force, such as when I would use chopsticks several times in a week (and yes, if you're imagining that, you're realizing I hold my chopsticks weird...I don't think it counts as circus cred, though). The pad at the base of my thumb would get super swollen and the joint would ache, but I would ice it and pop some vitamin I (a clue into how much ibuprofen I've taken on a regular basis over the years), and all would eventually be well.

But then I moved to Montreal and that next full winter, things got really, really bad. I was in so much pain and had lost so much strength in those joints, I could barely get through my day. Brushing my teeth, styling my hair (I used to do that back then), pulling up my freaking pants, doing the dishes. I broke so many dishes during that period because I literally didn't have the strength to hold onto them. I used to turn my hands palms facing out to the sides and grasp the waist of my pants with just my fingers that way to pull them up (yes, it's as awkward as it sounds). Buttons and zippers were my nemesis. And this was Montreal. IN WINTER. If you haven't been there, I'm not even going to describe it to you because the very thought of it would frighten you. True story.

Anyway. Using Canada's awesome communist socialized medical system, I was fitted with braces to wear while I slept and as often as possible while I was at home (you have not experienced the ultimate in comfort until you have slept in two hard braces extending from the base of your fingers halfway down your forearm, keeping your thumb immobile, every night for months, let me tell you), and one for writing at school that was molded while I held a pen and kept the joint stable while I wrote (it was not comfortable or helpful in terms of writing AT ALL). Basically, I was a mess. And not very stylish.

But when I moved back to California, voila. In very short order, I was rarely if ever dealing with the issue. I was dealing with carpal tunnel syndrome in a very bad way, of course, because you know, the more problems you have in one part of your body, the better, I always say. But arthritis? Nah. Not really at all.

That is, until my genius plan to type, type, type away on my phone while in bed with the beebs (who, I've been admonished, are now very much toddlers, so...can we still use that term? Hmmm...). Obviously the way I hold the phone and use my thumb to type is severely exacerbating my arthritis, which is, in turn, keeping me from writing. And that is, in turn, making me very fussy. Well, among other things. The Barbarian likes to describe me as "fussy" in general. It's his polite way of saying I'm a total bitch. These are the things that keep marriages thriving, right?

So, there you have it. The reason (excuse?) for why I have been ever so less than prolific with the posting. Of course it means I will have to come up with some other plan for finding time to write, but things are in the works. We are making headway with The Barbarian putting the babies to sleep (with the occasional assist from me) and them actually staying that way for sometimes a few glorious hours before waking to nurse or before we finally just come to bed. We actually WATCHED TV the other night. It was insanity. And after finishing the first show and convincing ourselves they were just asleep and not dead, we watched A SECOND SHOW. I know. I know. I could get used to this.

And I think I am finally ready to start having them get used to napping without me. Not falling asleep without me, of course, as I'll still nurse them down, but I'm working up the nerve to start sneaking away once they are out-out. And I say "working up the nerve" because this will, of course, mean their naps will most likely be depressingly short for a while, as they are used to half-waking and latching back on and falling back asleep several times over the course of a nap. But I'm hopeful and confident that with enough persistence on my part, we can come to an understanding, so to speak, and they'll get used to the idea that I'll be there when they fall asleep, but not when they wake up. We shall see, eh?

So expect more from me. But not too much. We must always endeavour to be realistic. Because being unrealistic makes me fussy.

And The Barbarian doesn't need any more validation in that department.

Trust me.         

THAT parent

I'm pretty sure it's safe to say those of us who know all along that we'll become parents have an image of that parent before actually having children. Sometimes that vision is created and tweaked long before even being ready to start a family, and when that happens, the imagined future narrative of one's life as a parent can become an utterly daunting ideal constantly flashing in the back of your mind as you navigate the oftentimes stormy waters of parenthood. (Because comparing parenting to attempting to control and right a constantly flailing, listing, wayward ship is not wholly inaccurate, am I right?)

This was--and is--the case for me. I began babysitting here and there starting at a very young age (10, I believe, as I was ever the astonishingly mature child...yes, I seem to have devolved in many areas...) and eventually turned my love of children and caring for them into what I suppose I can call a career nannying. And the fact that I have a hard time referring to the 14 years I spent as a nanny a "career" really does speak to the ridiculous values this society places--and doesn't place--on things deemed "work." Or maybe those are my hangups. Hmmm. Something to consider.

Anyway. The point is, I nannied for a LONG TIME. I should say, I had the absolute pleasure of nannying for a long time. Because while it was still a job, and I didn't always necessarily jump for joy at the thought of getting up and doing it again the next day, I really did love nannying. I was honoured the parents I worked for trusted me to help raise their children, and I felt thankful my "work" was helping me learn valuable and very applicable life skills. And over the years, as I spent time with many different children and was exposed to many different ways of parenting, I developed a pretty detailed blueprint for my eventual approach to parenting.

All the while, though, I was repeatedly told, and readily agreed, that things would be so very different when I had my own children. However, I think maybe somewhere in the back of my mind, I rolled my eyes a bit whenever this was mentioned. Of course it would be different. I would have the weight of full responsibility for EVERYTHING relating to my children bearing down on me at all times. I would be sleep-deprived and hormonal--and I certainly wouldn't be able to just go home at the end of the day. I would be home. All the time. But even knowing these things rationally, I'm pretty sure I still thought I could overcome a lot of it and stick to these lofty ideals I had so meticulously assembled for myself. 

Then I had babies. Two of them. AT THE SAME TIME. Remember that whole thing? 

That is not to say things would necessarily be different if we had only had one to start. We'll never know, I suppose. What we do know, though, is that having twins, especially, I think, for your first (and second), effectively renders any vision of your list of dos and don'ts as a parent null and void. NULL. AND. VOID. 

Like TV, for instance. I'm not much of a TV-watcher myself (neither is The Barbarian). In fact, up until briefly last year, I had never even had broadcast or cable TV in my home, and had gone quite a while without even an actual TV. I'm also well aware of the research linking early TV-watching and media influence in general with all sorts of not very desirable effects. So I had firmly decided my children would not watch ANY television until two years old at the earliest. Wanna know how long it took me before I scanned Netflix for something that wouldn't make me more insane than I already felt while attempting to distract them for even two minutes in order to quell the fussing and clinging and neediness so I could breathe deeply and stifle the urge to scream out of sheer exhaustion and frustration? Seven months. SEVEN MONTHS. Which, if my math is correct, is really nowhere even in the general vicinity of two years.

And now, at one year, they watch TV daily. And I shouldn't really say "TV," I suppose, because it's not uncontrolled nonsense spewing into my home, and they certainly don't watch commercials. But I put shows on for them from either Netflix or Amazon Prime when I need to clean up a bit, hold them off for nap (we're still technically in the transition between two naps and one nap, so lengthening that morning gap can still be a struggle sometimes), or just feel like having something on in the background. Which is terrible. I admit that. And, as not a TV-watcher--as not even someone who generally ever even watches movies or shows alone--I never got the whole background TV thing. In fact, it drove me crazy when I walked into people's houses and it was just on, all the time. My mom eventually had to get used to the fact that when I arrived at her house, the first thing I did was head straight for the TV and turn it off. She eventually began hurriedly doing it herself upon my arrival. I'm so rude.

I will admit that this is an area in which we are just recently realizing we really should step it back. Because, seriously--they love TV. I mean, what kid doesn't? What person doesn't? It's a well documented phenomenon that those of us who don't watch TV on a regular basis simply cannot take our eyes off the damn thing if we find ourselves in close proximity to one that's on. Dude. It's uncontrollable. I get it. It's a (in our case) huge box exploding with lights and noises and music and shapes and movement and it's just plain neat. King Toad Agooga and The Goblin Queen especially like the music because they LOVE to dance. Especially TGQ. Sometimes she wakes up and the very first thing she does, while still literally half asleep, is sit up and start dancing (which for her is holding her arms out in front of her, bent in at the elbows a bit, and moving them side to side while twisting her body just slightly. We realized some months ago that she must associate this move with dancing, as Ehren would stand her in his lap when she was tiny, grab her arms, and then pump them in and out, making her whole body, but especially her booty, shake side to side while he sang, "Shake, shake, shake your booty..." And she was so floppy, it was wildly entertaining. He also used to animate her arms and make up raps for her to perform when she was really tiny and it was hifuckinglarious. I'm not sure we ever actually got one on video, though. It's official. We suck.). It took KTA a little while longer to pick up the dancing thing (apparently TGQ, who is very like me in many ways, gets this from me, as, according to legend, I was always, always dancing...my parents still call me "Boogie" actually), but he has his own very distinct style consisting of bending his knees and bouncing up and down. And he almost always looks to see if anyone is watching him perform. With the cutest little smile on his face too. It's ridonculously adorable. And I love that their dancing styles are so different. They're just the coolest.

But I digress.

TV, right. TV is bad, m'kay? I mean, they're asking for it now...and getting a bit pissy when I turn it off sometimes. Nothing distraction doesn't immediately quash, but it's a definite change from even a few weeks ago. And obviously part of that is because they're developmentally more advanced every week and are "getting" the TV way more. They certainly don't actually watch it the entire time it's on, but that percentage is getting higher and higher. And interestingly, I was re-reading some research on TV and the developing brain after beginning this post, and most things I came across noted that children their age don't even understand what's happening on TV. But I'm not so sure--they laugh at funny parts and sometimes imitate what a character is doing, like jumping. I mean, we know they're geniuses, but... 

So anyway, my point is that we are making a concerted effort to not have it on so much (and are excited to finish our fenced play area in the backyard so we can spend more time outdoors during the day...walks in the stroller only do so much for my busy children and there is no way I can handle taking both to the park alone--a few minutes on the patio the other day netted us a scraped chin, quite a bit of ingested dirt, and a faceplant into a cooler still filled with water leftover from their party. As hard as I try, I still can't seem to be everywhere at once. I'm not sure what the deal is...), but the reality is that it's on sometimes and will most likely continue to be on sometimes. And I'm okay with that. The main sticking point in the research seems to be that children who are watching TV are not being interacted with, especially verbally, by their caregivers, and that's really where the negative effect on brain development comes in. But this is not the case for the beebs. Truly, it's challenging to ever really shut me up, and those poor things are stuck here all day with me. Can you imagine the inane bullshit they have to listen to? Poor dears. And while there is definitely still lots we don't know about how TV and media in general affects babies' brains in those crucial first few years, much of my generation--and I realize we are wading firmly into logical fallacy territory here--watched a hell of a lot of TV starting early on (Sesame Street FTW!), and we turned out this side of pretty okay, I think. That's a rhetorical statement, by the way. No commentary needed.

So there's that.

Also, cloth diapers. That's a crunchy, post-hippie thing to do, right? Well, by golly, I was gonna use cloth diapers. And what's not to love? Better for their skin, better for the environment, better for your budget. I had used cloth diapers on babies in the past and thought it was a no-brainer. 

And we did...for a while. Well, not to begin with actually, as the hospital (where we never expected to be in the first place) supplied us with all the Pampers we could go through, and seeing as KTA was in the NICU for a while and they sent TGQ home with plenty, we just used those. Which felt like such a copout, not just because they weren't cloth, but because they were Pampers. They weren't even good hippie diapers. They had characters on them and smelled like baby (that's a trademarked scent, right?). But whatever, they were free and handy. Eventually we started using cloth on TGQ, but poor KTA, being only 4lbs, 13oz at birth, was way too tiny for even the preemie cloth diapers we ended up ordering. However, by two months or so, I'd say they were in cloth most of the time, except at night, and except when I hadn't done the laundry, and except when we weren't at home, and except when we felt lazy. But I'm pretty sure it was still, overall, a majority.

This pattern went on for a while and we were happy. Except for that damn yeast diaper rash that kept rearing its ugly head. This led to the adventure known as "stripping the diapers." So we stripped them in an attempt to rid ourselves once and for all of this terribly annoying affliction. And we stripped them again. And again. And again. In different solutions. In different machines. Using different methods. And just when I think we had finally rid ourselves of it, our washing machine stopped performing in anything close to an efficient manner (which is so not an okay reality in a household with babies), so we bought a new one. And because I have been wanting one for years for all sorts of efficiency reasons, we got a front-loader. Now, I actually knew in the back of my mind that front-loaders are NOT good for washing cloth diapers. I had read this in an article or two or five at some point in my research about cloth and caring for cloth and stripping and all that. But did I remember this at the time of purchase? No. No, I did not. Why? Because babies. That's why.

So we got our front-loader. And I loved it. But I began to hate our diapers. That efficiency thing I loved so much about front-loaders turns out to be the thing that makes them so shitty for washing cloth diapers--they don't use nearly enough water. It adds water based on the weight of the load, and since most diapers that go in aren't completely saturated (we opted not to keep them soaking in between loads as some people do), the machine adds much less water than it should because as soon as the water hits the diapers, they just soak it all up and are being tossed around mostly wet, but not actually in water...which as you can imagine, does not get them particularly clean. There are all these workarounds to the problem like adding a soaking wet towel or two to the load or--get this--standing there and adding a few GALLONS of water through the detergent dispensing drawer during the cycle. BWAHAHAHAHA!! Yeah. Right. I so totally have time to do that. Every time I wash diapers. Because I even have time to wash the fucking diapers regularly as it is. Fuck me.

And do you know what happens when cloth diapers don't get properly cleaned? As soon as they get peed in, they stink. Really, really badly. Like obnoxiously bad. Add to this the fact that after babies start eating solids, their poop doesn't just wash off in the machine anymore, and you have to devise some way to catch, scrape, or rinse the poo off before washing them, which is seriously NOT a favourite in any sense of the word past time of mine, and you have us arriving at the reality of choosing, nine or ten months in, that we were going with disposables full-time "for now." Because that's what I keep telling myself. But that's totally a crock because we're not going back to cloth. Maybe next baby. But definitely not these. I make myself feel better by getting environmentally-friendly diapers at a fat discount on Amazon, but I still feel less than because of this. But you know what? Fuck it. Disposable diapers are SO MUCH EASIER. And that is the name of the game these days, my friends. The name of the game. 

So I realize that's a fairly high word count for only two examples of how and why I'm not exactly the parent I imagined I'd be, but that's what you're getting. The Barbarian has been royally on my case about finishing a new post (he likes to read what I write, or something? I dunno), so I'll compile more examples of my imperfection as a mother in some (many) future post(s). 

The takeaway from this, of course, though, is that all the planning and scheming and visualizing and promising and smug feelings of preemptive satisfaction in the world cannot ever adequately prepare you for the realities of having your own wee progeny in your own house on your own time ALL THE TIME FOREVER AND EVER. Or at least until they move out, which, in this economy is probably never anyway. 

Oh, also? It's okay to let your kids watch TV and wear disposable diapers. Why? Because I said so, that's why. But never actually say that phrase to your kids. Because that's DEFINITELY on the "do not do" list--and it's staying there. 

Forever. 

Maybe.