Happy New Year!

I’m feeling pressured to write a profound end-of-year/end-of-decade post, filled with poignant remembrances and ambitious resolutions. I may go in that direction, but, just in case, let's pretend I'm not trying to write anything special. Ok, whew, pressure is off.

I do kind of have a feeling of excitement about 2010, though. I plan to re-enter society. I’m not sure when or how, or whether it means becoming employed or just engaging is some other sort of regular adult activity. But I can feel it building inside me. That itchy feeling I get after I’ve worked at one job a couple of years, and I start thinking about what else might be around the corner, or what I can add to my life to keep it interesting.

There’s a pretty simple explanation for this – the kids are older. They can say things like, “I’m hungry, I’m cold, I have a poopy diaper, I’m tired, I want my Lovey,” and so on. They tell me what they want to eat and what they want to drink. They can climb up and down stairs without holding my hand. They can sit alone and “read” a pile of books for 20 minutes while I get some housework done. They can sit in big chairs at the bank and doodle on a notepad while I take care of business. They enjoy going to "school" and being cared for by other adults.

In short, we are all ready for the next stage, whatever that may mean. I’m trying not to over think it, which would be new for me. In fact, I will now share my one profound, ambitious resolution for 2010 and beyond: I resolve to let myself be who I am.

Pretty heady stuff, huh? Here’s some more. I’m going to relax inside my body, and follow my interests, and not judge every thought that pops into my head. I’m going to stop “should”-ing myself to death. I’m going to let all the dark stuff from my past flutter out of me so that I am just me, rather than a conglomeration of painful experiences I’m trying to squish. I’m going to allow myself to grow into the person who is already there.

It may look like I am an over-planning, controlling, hyper, Type-A freak-out because that’s “who I am.” But that’s not really me at all. It’s just who I become when I go to that place where I don’t trust my judgment or instincts, or when I’m feeling shame or sadness about my past and where I came from. I go to those places a lot, several times a day in fact, and I use all that crazy Type-A energy to either distract me from my deep pain or to control my environment so I can convince myself that no mistake will ever be made on my watch, ever again for the rest of my life.

It takes a lot of nervous energy to keep up this kind of charade, which probably explains why I can eat obscene amounts of chocolate and ice cream on a daily basis without gaining weight. So I guess while I’m doing all this relaxing within myself, I’ll have to make a secondary resolution to cut back on the chocolate (the ice cream is not negotiable).

I hope you will think about what you can do to give yourself a break this year, and to simply be who you are. And I hope you enjoy lots of ice cream, too.

O Christmas Tree!

Last Saturday morning, we went out to the Papa Noel stand on Loop 360 and got ourselves a perfectly proportioned and perfectly-sized Christmas tree. I’m not exaggerating about its perfection. The A/C guy who came to the house yesterday said, “That is a perfect Christmas tree – I’ve never seen one so perfect.” So anyway, the girls had a nice enough time picking out their perfect Christmas tree and then telling the giant plywood Santa next to the stand that they wanted lollipops for Christmas. But they really get a kick out of having a tree inside the house.

They were able to put on lots of the ornaments themselves and, despite Turtle’s initial reaction when Twin Daddy brought it in the house, (crying, “I don’t like my Christmas tree Daddy!”) the girls love the tree. When they get up in the morning, the first thing Monkey does is go to the tree and say, “Hi Christmas Tree, I had a good sleep!” On her way to her room for Time Out, she says “Bye Christmas Tree, I go to Time Out now!” They both love to stand and point and talk about the ornaments up high, and to pull off the unbreakable ornaments decorating the bottom half of the tree. They each have their favorites that they carry around, talk to, eat with, put in their grocery cart, and take on car rides.

Turtle’s favorite is a little stuffed elf that my mother made sometime in the early 1980s. She made one for me, one for my sister, and one for all of our cousins; each is embroidered with the recipient's name. It is not fancy; the pattern was a simple two sided cartoonish cut-out that she stuffed with polyester fill and sewed closed. The stitching to close it up is imprecise and visible. You can see the pen outline of my name, where her embroidery didn’t quite follow the marks she made. It looks exactly like something I would make, with my impatience for sitting still and my lack of fine motor skills. I have always treasured that little elf and its imperfections, and to see Turtle cuddling with something that her Grandma Lupe made is overwhelming. I try very hard not to cry every time she picks it up, but I’m pretty unsuccessful.

I think it’s ok for the girls see me cry – I do it a lot so there’s no point in hiding it. I know they will grow to understand that the random fits of crying happen because there never will be enough sloppy little elves on our perfect Christmas tree.

Flawed Mommy

I donated the girls’ last year’s winter coats to Coats for Kids this morning. When the guy behind the counter at Jack Brown Cleaners just whisked them out of my hand and stuffed them into a box without so much as a thank you, I was a little taken aback. These were my babies’ first real winter coats, carefully chosen for their water resistance, hood, length and perfect weight for an Austin winter. And *poof* they were gone, just like that. The other customer didn’t even cast me an admiring glance for my good deed. I left the store feeling bad for not offering the coats to a family in need in my Mother’s of Multiples club – someone with two little darlings who would appreciate a coordinated pair of perfect winter coats. Then I really started to analyze myself and realized that I probably wouldn’t be satisfied unless I personally put the coats on some beautiful needy children, basked in their thrill over their “new” coats, and then humbly accepted a tearful thank you from the overwhelmed mother.

Once I figured out that I was looking for an “Extreme Home Makeover” moment for myself, I got over it. It was a good reminder of how often I think I’m doing something for others when I’m really doing it for myself. It happens so much that I get embarrased just thinking about it. I'm guessing that about 90% of what I have purchased for the girls is my own wish fulfillment. I’ve taken the drastic measure of limiting myself to buying them exactly one Christmas present. Twin Daddy will get the rest, as he is much better at getting them age-appropriate things they actually enjoy, as opposed to what will impress other moms when they come over for a play date.

Since we are on the subject of things I do that look like they are for others but are really for myself, I’ll just put the next one out there: becoming a stay-at-home mom. I totally did it for myself, way, way, way more than I did it for the girls. But here’s the part that it soooo funny! The “easiest and most fun job I’ve ever had,” the job that made me feel like I was “on vacation from work,” is chewing me up and spitting me out. (I think I’m going through a temporary burn-out phase, so don’t freak out, just stay with me.) I swear if I have to cook one more meal, I’m going to lose my mind. I say this to myself before every single meal and I still have my wits about me, so perhaps I’m being a little dramatic. This morning Turtle sat down to the exact same breakfast we have almost every single weekday: a boiled egg and a waffle with cream cheese. She took one bite and said, “I LOVE it Mommy!” She loves it. So I berate myself for being the type of person who can get burned out from making the simplest meal imaginable for the world’s most appreciative child. But guess what else? I am tired of making lunches for “school.” Are you getting this? I make lunch exactly two days a week for Mother’s Day Out, and have done so for three months. And I’m tired of it already. I try not to think about the next 16 school years.

I walked into the perfectly neat playroom this morning after I dropped the girls off at school, and immediately became filled with rage. RAGE! I walked right back out and wondered when I had lost my mind. One day I’m showing off my new aprons and the next thing you know I’m averting my eyes from the playroom of my dreams so as to not be reminded of – what? That I have everything I ever wanted in my life?

Ok, so before you go calling CPS to stake out my house, just keep in mind that I am simply expressing, publicly and (hopefully) humorously, what I believe every mother feels at some point in her toddlers’ lives. Since I believe my experience is fairly common, I have created a mathematical equation to explain it. Feel free to pass this along to any other mother who is wondering where all her warm and fuzzy feelings went:

(((Diapers X 25 months) + (Cooking X 16 months) + (Incessant Whining X 4 months) + (Unreasonable Demands X 2 months)) X 2) + zero outside personal interests = Burn out

I always wondered why a mother would be willing to feed her daughter a peanut butter sandwich for dinner, after she’d just had one for lunch, just because the kid demanded it. Or give her other daughter waffles with honey to accompany her red beans and rice, just because the kid screamed for it. Now that I am her, I know what was wrong with her. She was tired.

To the Moon!

Monkey takes all the play vegetables out of the basket and puts the basket on her head. I say, “Are you wearing your space helmet, like Little Bear?” She says yes. Turtle then picks up a metal toy pot and puts in on her head. “Hel-mit, too!” she says. “You’re both wearing your space helmets! Do you want to go to the moon?” Yes, they do!

“Ok,” I say, “Let’s get our space ship!” I get the toy rocket out of the play room closet. “Now, let’s get Astronaut Sally and Astronaut Neal! And don’t forget our moon rover.” We collect the astronauts and I ask, “Do we need anything else?” “Sonya Lee,” says Monkey. She grabs her Little People character. “Now Momma needs a helmet,” I say, picking up the toy frying pan and putting it on my head. “Ok, let's go!”

The rocket makes a flying noise, so I take the lead with the rocket “flying” through the air, with Turtle and Monkey following me, each of us keeping our helmets on with one hand and bringing our supplies with the other. They follow me out of the playroom, down the hallway, across the living room, and into the dining room. “We’re here,” I say, “Boy, it’s dark on the moon, isn’t it?” They agree that the light from the living room gives us just enough light to park. The rocket lands, the astronauts disembark, and Astronaut Sally drives the moon rover under the dining room table to explore.

“Let’s eat while Astronaut Sally explores,” I suggest. Turtle and I pull our helmets off and start cooking with them. Luckily, Monkey picked up a plastic egg on the way to the moon, so we have something to eat. Sonya Lee goes to the potty on the toilet inside the rocket, then cooks some food in the microwave. Astronaut Sally returns from her exploration, then Neal goes out to check the quadrant by the potted plant. While he is out, Twin Daddy comes home. “Moon Daddy, sit down, here!” insists Monkey. So Twin Daddy joins us on the moon, still in his work clothes.

After a little more exploring, it’s time to return to Earth. We collect our gear, which has multiplied thanks to Monkey’s frequent solo trips home for more supplies (a plate, a spoon, and Mr. Potato Head’s accessories). When we land I say, “Ok girls, now we have to write a report to NASA about our findings. You use these and I’ll use the computers.” I hand out their Doodle Pros and they each get to work on scribbling, while I pretend-type on the oversized remote controls Uncle C. gave them for Christmas last year. “I want computer, too,” says Turtle. So I give her a remote control and she types her report instead.

We make several return trips to the moon, including one trip that requires both grocery carts to be completely emptied on the moon’s surface.

Best playtime ever.

The Boy Next Door

Turtle and Monkey have a crush on the adorable 5-year-old boy who lives two houses to the left of us in our cul-de-sac. I’ll call him “Boy.” I know the girls are too young for me to call this a crush, but I’m not sure what else to name it – fascination? All I know is that at random times throughout the day, they ask for “mas Boy.”

It started sometime in September, once it was cool enough to play outside during the 5 o’clock hour. Boy and his family get home sometime after 5 every weekday, and he and his two sisters (one older, one younger) get out their bikes and ride around the cul-de-sac. I’ve always taken the girls out to watch the older kids ride their bikes, even before they could walk, but this season they suddenly noticed Boy hot-rodding around the cul-de-sac on his two-wheeled bike or his scooter. From then on it’s been all “mas Boy, mas Boy” every day. The minute they see the family’s car pull into the cul-de-sac, they start yelling “Boy, outside, Boy, Boy, Boy,” and there is a mad dash to put on shoes so we can get out there.

Once we are outside, they run to the edge of our driveway, sit down, and watch him ride. If he goes inside for a minute, they say his name over and over until he comes back. Monkey usually brings our basket of chalk from the front steps and says, “Boy, draw, Boy draw.” Occasionally he stops to draw in the street but usually I have to say, “Monkey, Boy wants to ride his bike right now, not draw.”

I will admit that I’ve encouraged this fascination. It’s so darn cute, and it’s also a fantastic break to have an older kid entertain the girls for awhile while I just sit there and watch. He’s a good example, too. Because Boy wears his bike helmet, the girls put on their own helmets without argument. They’re also a little more interested in actually figuring out how to ride their tricycles on their own, so they can play with Boy in the cul-de-sac without me and Twin Daddy tagging along.

What does Boy think about this? I’m pretty sure he loves it - who doesn’t love an adoring audience? He always comes over to say hello and talk to “the babies.” He’ll occasionally bring his little lawn chairs over to our driveway for the girls to sit in while they watch him. And if we aren’t outside by the time he starts riding his bike, he just bikes right up to our front door to get our attention. When I open the door, he asks the girls, “Do you want to watch me ride my bike?”

Yes, we do, thank you very much.

The Dry Erase Board

Written in September, 2008.

My obsessive listing started long before I became pregnant. I typed grocery lists, made lists of books I intended to read and other lists for long-term projects I’d someday get around to, and relied on my daily to-do lists. Even my weekends began with a list: Clean the closet. Take the dog to the park. It provided me with a certain degree of comfort, I suppose, because every time someone marveled at my organization skills, I’d swell with pride and recommit to controlling my world, one crossed off to-do item at a time.

Once I found out I was pregnant with twins, I kicked it into even higher gear. There was the Master Registry List, a spreadsheet compiling all the suggested registry items contained in my books, organized by stores and into categories, designed and edited to fit our family-to-be. I mentally matched gifts to certain people, and when they’d casually ask whether there was anything I particularly wanted, I’d practically recite the item number I’d picked out for them. Nevertheless, we ended up with too many car seats and no preemie outfits.

Then there was my list of 57 things to do before the girls’ birth, divided by items to purchase, work responsibilities to complete, and house organization projects to get underway. It ranged from the relatively easy (“get tile in guest bathroom steam cleaned”) to the overwhelming (“get wills done”). Every week I updated the list, deleting the things I’d completed and invariably adding half a dozen new projects. Finally, when I was 37 weeks pregnant, five days away from my scheduled cesarean section, I relented. Not everything on the list would be completed before the girls were born. I was frustrated that my hugely pregnant frame refused to carry me around quickly and easily, prohibiting me from replacing that hideous sconce in the hallway. To make myself feel better, I created a short list of 18 things to do after the girls were born and tried to relax.

By the time Monkey and Turtle were four weeks old, it felt like I’d had about ten hours of sleep in the previous month. The one task I managed to complete during that time was getting to my attorney’s office to sign my will. Thank God for that, since I was sure I’d soon die from the exhaustion of trying to keep up with my new life. I needed to assert some control over the chaos. So I made another list. It included everything that needed to happen each day, in the order it should happen, from running a load of baby laundry to the six-times-a-day breast-pumping routine to a quick shower for myself. Soon the list became a chart, divided by days of the week, complete with neat boxes and columns. I planned to check off each item as I completed it, review my results on Sunday, revise as needed, and print out a new list for the following week. I was determined to restore order to my life. No more missing my daily vitamins; the dog would not go unfed again. Just consult the list every half hour and it would tell me what to do.

The girls, however, had no respect for my list. One would cry and the other would cry, so I could rarely turn my attention away from them. I soothed one for a couple of minutes and then put her down to pick up the other, only to have the first one start to wail again as soon as she was out of my arms. I tried in vain to manage it all, but when Sunday arrived the number of checked boxes was outnumbered by blank ones. I tried to be satisfied that each feeding and breast-pumping box was checked every day. The girls needed to eat, and I was at least providing them breast milk. We were all surviving, and I could always shower next month.

When the girls were old enough that I no longer needed to obsess over every ounce eaten and every minute slept, I created a simple organizational chart on my dry erase board. In my former life, this big white board hung on the wall of my home office, recording the status of numerous real estate transactions. Now it would guide my days at home with the girls. I propped it on the fireplace hearth and created three neatly divided categories: "Signs We’re Learning," "Foods We’re Eating," and "Things We’re Doing." I allowed the dry erase board to showcase all the ways in which I was enriching the girls’ day.

“Do you really need to write ‘practice crawling’ on the board?” Twin Daddy asked. “Isn’t that something they just do?” I ignored the teasing of friends and family. I needed the board. I was convinced that without it I would just stare off into space while Monkey and Turtle chewed on my shoes.

When Monkey learned to crawl, followed shortly thereafter by Turtle, the disregard for my list only grew. No amount of piano playing or Spanish sing-along CDs was as interesting as pulling up on door hinges, banging on windows, and chewing on houseplants. Gone were the days when they would amuse themselves in their play yard while I cleaned up the breakfast dishes or folded laundry. Now they yelled for release after two minutes of confinement. Monkey got a week-long bleeding diaper rash as a result of the abundance of fibrous vegetables I proudly displayed under "Foods We’re Eating." “She’s not ready for all those foods, you need to go back to basics,” the pediatric nurse advised. Turtle wouldn’t even look at me when I made the sign for “cat” when he walked past, opting instead to lunge after him and pull out his hair in clumps.

The fireplace hearth became a favorite area for both girls to practice climbing and standing, so I looked for another place to prop my dry erase board. As I carried it around, I noticed how many of the words on my once meticulous board were faded or half-erased, that the food and schedule categories hadn’t been updated in weeks, and that I’d given up teaching most of the signs on the list long ago. And that’s when I realized that not only was there no place for the board in my house, but that there was no place for it in my life. The girls’ development is so rapid and dramatic that it takes my breath away. All I really need to do is offer them a bite to eat every couple of hours, stay out of their way, and enjoy the beautiful lives unfolding in front of me.

The laundry sits on the dining room table all week. And that’s okay.

Happy 2nd Birthday, Monkey and Turtle!

More Bits

Mas Tecas! We went to the University Co-op (Longhorn Mecca) Saturday and tried to get Miss Turtle her hat. But do you think she cooperated? She refused to even try them on and when we asked her if she wanted one, she said "NO!" There were only a couple of toddler caps anyway, and we didn't like them, and the store was a chaotic zoo, so we just let it go and got a couple more t-shirts instead. We had a great time, even getting our picture taken with the giant Bevo behind the Co-op. Then, as we drove away from the store, Turtle said, "I need Tecas hat."

Just say NO to Balloons. Monkey is going through a phase where she is afraid of many things. I mentioned before that clowns top the list, and when we see a clown in a book she says "Monkey like clowns. NO." Apparently, a helium balloon floating around the house of its own accord is also quite scary. Think about it - it is kind of creepy how it just bounces around, floating down from the ceiling, moving from room to room, all by itself. Well, Monkey thinks so anyway. The first balloon we brought home deflated overnight while she slept, so she didn't see it happen. She watched the second one (the one we got at Central Market after Turtle fell on the playscape) slowly float out of the skylight in the playroom and bounce around the room and she buried her head in my chest, whining, and wouldn't let me out of her sight. Then last weekend we went to a restaurant and the waitress brought two red balloons to the table. You would have thought she was trying to kidnap Monkey. We had to hide the balloons under the table, under my feet in the car, and then in the utility room when we got home, only presenting them once they were totally deflated and un-scary. So, no birthday balloons this year!

Things are a little hectic around here as we prepare for birthdays, Halloween, and my high school reunion, so I'm keeping it short tonight. Have a great week!

Bits and Pieces

Play Doh: The other day Turtle asked for Play-Doh. I was getting it out of the playroom closet when Monkey approached, hands outstretched. I gave her a canister and turned back to get one for Turtle when I heard Monkey say, “Eat! Eat!” I snapped my head back and said, “Monkey, NO eat, NO eat Play-Doh!” while shaking my head and furrowing my brows. Monkey laughed and said, “Funny.” “We’re you just being funny?” I asked. “Yeah,” she said. “So you know you don’t eat Play-Doh?” “Yeah, funny,” she said, giggling. So that’s it, then. My child knows how to push my buttons, and she thinks it funny.

Texas Longhorns: Nearly every single day, for several weeks now, Turtle has said, “I want Tecas hat.” Last week I tried to get her to wear the very nice red Texas Rangers baseball cap that Uncle C. got her, saying “Here Lily, this is a Texas hat, for the Texas Rangers.” She screamed “No!” flung it off her head, and looked at me like I was the biggest jerk on earth. I swear, I taught the girl one little Hook ‘Em Horns sign and created a fanatic. We're going to the University Co-Op Saturday morning (game day!) to get her a hat and, I'm guessing, a whole lot more.

Tylenol: I have mentioned several times that Monkey is kind of going through something dramatic right now. The other night, while trying to settle her and Turtle during a particularly difficult bedtime routine, I said aloud to Twin Daddy, “I wonder if we should give them some Tylenol?” Monkey immediately started screaming, “MEDICINE, MEDICINE!” That gave me pause, so I offered Oragel instead. Turtle let me rub the Oragel on her gums and settled down immediately, while Monkey grabbed the applicator out of my hand, threw it on the floor, then started throwing her toothbrush, comb, and anything else she could grab from the bathroom counter, all while screaming, “Tylenol! Tylenol!”

We didn’t give her anything, and she went right to sleep once we got her in her crib. Her little addiction/withdrawal scene scared me straight, and I haven’t given her anything since. I think I have traced the real problem back to the fact that she started going to bed a good 20 minutes later once we started “potty time” before bath time, and that seems to have completely thrown her sleep out of whack. We’ve gone back to earlier bedtimes, and now she’s sleeping later in the morning, taking better naps, and she’s less cranky and clingy. Thank you Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child! Your sage advice has been my guiding light for the past 20 months.

Letting Go, Part III: We went to the playground at Central Market last Friday. After a couple of turns around the toddler playscape, Turtle approached the BIG kids playscape. Of course Monkey followed. I tried to put my fears aside and let them have a go. Within 3 minutes Turtle fell on some big steps and bloodied her lip. I scooped them both up and ran back to the safety of the toddler playscape, while my friend E. got some ice from inside. While Turtle nursed her lip I said with a big smile, “Hey girls – do you want to go INSIDE and go GROCERY SHOPPING and get some BIG BALLOONS! Or, [sagging body language] doyouwanttostayoutsideandplay?” They picked the balloons.

Just like Ana!: We used some empty paper towel rolls for a little craft project and once the craft had been destroyed (thank you Monkey), the paper towel rolls were left. One of the girls started using hers as a vacuum cleaner, and the other followed, and soon they were running around the playroom, making "whooshing" noises, and "vaccuming" the chairs, the floor, their toys. I was marveling at their creativity when one of them said, "Ana, Ana!" as she vacuumed a chair. The other caught on, and then it was all "Ana, Ana" and vaccuuming. Ana is the woman who cleans our house every two weeks. She is wonderful and we all like her, but I was embarrassed that they connect vacuuming with Ana and not momma. But what can I say? I don't vaccuum and now I know that they've noticed.

Tiny bits: Turtle counted to 10 tonight, by herself, without prompting. Monkey did a somersault last night, also by herself, without prompting. I did a few push-ups for them during breakfast this morning to explain what I meant by "exercise" when I said, "Mommy's going to exercise while you go to school" (Mother's Day Out). They both clammered to be let out of their booster seats so they could try one. Theirs looks a little more like a yoga pose (downward facing dog), but we'll work on it. Twin Momma may not vaccuum, but she can do a mean push-up.

Websites I like

Twin Momma has been really busy overseeing home improvement projects, organizing my 20 year high school reunion, and avoiding the emotional reality that Turtle and Monkey will be turning 2 in just a few weeks. These big events will all be behind me six weeks from now, just in time to go into my holiday frenzy. In the meantime, Monkey is giving me a frightening preview of how dramatic her adolescence might be, so I’m kind of empty on the “creative” front. To tide you over until I can get it together (next week? Yeah, right) I’ve created this list of websites I visit if I have any time left after the New York Times, Amazon, craigslist, Facebook, and random searches on Google. As you can see, my list is small and narrow. I would LOVE for you to send me your blog link, favorite websites, or whatever, so I can add them as links on this blog (once I figure out how one does that) and start reading something other than Facebook status updates.

http://blog.austinkids.org/?s=spanish
http://www.mommytracked.com/bookshelf/amazon
http://www.votekuhn.com/
http://www.humorwriters.org/
http://safemama.com/
www.cosmeticsdatabase.com/index.php
http://corporette.com/

You take the good, You take the bad . . . (you know the rest)

The Good: This morning R.H. came over with her six-month-old baby, B. She put a blanket down on the living room floor for B to sit on, and Turtle and Monkey joined B on the blanket. I asked Monkey, “Do you think we have any toys B would like to play with?” She replied, “EIEIoo.” “Ok,” I said, “Go get EIEIO and bring it here.”

Monkey went to the playroom, got the farm animal “See ‘n Say,” and brought it to B. She pulled the lever to show B how it worked and smiled when B got excited. Then Turtle ran to the playroom and came back lugging the Little People Animal Sounds Farm. They showed each farm animal to B, told her the names of the animals and the sounds they made, and generally played with her in a way I’d never seen before. When our toddler friends come over for playdates, there is a lot of “no! no! mine! mine!,” shoving, and other behavior that would best be described under “The Bad.” But they tickled B, nuzzled B, and gracefully shared with B. It was lovely.

The Bad: Monkey is going through something. It’s been going on for a few weeks now and I can only pray we are currently at the apex because this week has been a doozy. She is clingy. And I mean throw her arms around my neck, bury her face in my shoulder, and hold on tightly like she’s afraid of being abandoned clingy. Everywhere we go. And at home. If I have the audacity to put her down, say to try to make dinner or go to the bathroom, she has a hysterical screaming fit. She has spent a few minutes each of the last few days in her crib, just crying it out. She pushes and bites at Turtle on the rare occasion Turtle asks to be held. We went to a party at church on Sunday afternoon and she went into overdrive, which meant I sat as far away as I could from everyone else with Monkey glued to my chest. I’m pretty sure it was the clown that did her in there. I’ve asked her about the clown a couple of times since then and she just starts to yell, and I’ve heard her muttering “no clown, no clown” to herself a couple of times since then.

I’m fairly certain Monkey is beginning to get her second year molars, because this was the pattern she followed when she got her first set of molars – difficulty sleeping, which then resulted in crankiness and whininess. For two months. I dreaded the two year molars, and for good reason. I’ve taken to medicating her with Tylenol on a regular basis. And guess what? I can’t even feel the slightest hint of a tooth. So we have a way to go. I’m not too worried about Turtle, though. When her first set of molars came in, she was basically really cranky one afternoon and evening, then woke up the next morning with molars. It was shocking after the two months of agony that Monkey (and we) had gone through, and one of my many lessons in how very different my two girls are.

The Good: I have just enjoyed the peace and quiet of a 3 hour nap by my lovely ladies, which is sure to mean a happy evening for everyone.

Have a great week!

All About Me

Sometimes I get bored writing about the girls all the time. I could tell you that Turtle now speaks in four word sentences (“I need mo shrimp”) and that Monkey seems to be in the beginning stages of getting her two-year molars (God help me), or that both girls are in the throes of Longhorn Gear Mania (“mas Tecas, mas Tecas!”). Turtle actually cried this morning because I didn’t have a “Tecas” hat for her to wear.

But enough about them. Following the Facebook model, I've decided to tell you 25 random things about me that you might not know. I think that quiz came out on Facebook, I’m not sure. I ignore all the quizzes and questions on Facebook. And that’s Random Thing #1 for you.

2. I don’t know how to use PowerPoint

3. I went to U.S. Army Basic Training in Fort Jackson, South Carolina two weeks after my 17th birthday.

4. I rode the Greyhound bus from Austin to New York City, alone, in the summer of 1995.

5. My favorite vacation spot is Huahine (Tahiti), French Polynesia.

6. When I went to London in 2003, I insisted on going to Kings Cross Station to see Platform 9¾.

7. I’ve read each of David Sedaris’s books at least 3 times.

8. I got kicked off the cheerleading squad in 9th grade because I got drunk one morning at school.

9. The first concert I ever went to was Adam Ant in 1985, at the Majestic Theater in San Antonio.

10. I wear size 10 shoes.

11. My first pet was a dog named Rags.

12. When I was 20, I owned (and proudly wore) several pairs of Daisy Dukes.

13. My first car was a red Chrysler LeBaron.

14. I marched in the Battle of Flowers parade in San Antonio (as part of my high school band’s Flag Line).

15. I worked on the case of a death row inmate, and met with him, weeks before he was executed.

16. I like fancy stationary.

17. I still have my high school letterman jacket.

18. I’ve met Hillary Clinton, Barack Obama, George W. Bush, and James Baker

19. I can fit my entire fist in my mouth

20. When I was in high school, my dad flew a Confederate flag in our front yard.

21. I eat ice cream every single day.

22. I still have my Cabbage Patch Kid.

23. I love being alone.

24. I have Monkey’s umbilical cord saved in a Ziploc bag (would’ve saved Turtle’s if I’d seen it fall off).

25. I think Woody Harrelson and Jason Bateman are the hottest male actors around.

Letting Go, Part II

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve excused myself for my perceived lapse in parenting skills by saying, “Well, I have twins.” I find my little saying quite useful, especially when I’m noticing that the girls’ gross motor skills lag a little behind other kids their age, particularly when it comes to climbing stairs and ladders and using playground equipment and that sort of thing. For example, our neighbor’s daughter, A., is three months younger but has been more advanced in climbing skills for months. Both she and our other friends’ son, L., were walking well by the time they were 12 months, whereas my girls weren’t fully walking until 14 and 15 months.

But, like I said, “I have twins.” Which means my girls spent more time in the Pack N Play, more time in their strollers, and less time at the playground, and that I was less tolerant of climbing on the couch or getting near the stairs. I simply couldn’t manage keeping two babies safe while they toddled in different directions, so I restricted their movement quite a bit, and that means it's taken them a tiny bit longer to develop the same skills as their singleton friends. I didn’t (and don’t) stress about this, because their development is perfectly within the normal range, and I knew they would (and will) “catch up” if there is any catching up to be done.

Well, recently we went to Terra Burger, a new (delicious) organic burger place by our house with an awesome playscape. I noted to myself that “when the girls got older” it would really be great, since the playscape was really for kids at least 3, with big ladders and slides and lots of openings for jumping, rock climbing, pole sliding, and other deadly activities.

Still, I allowed the girls to climb up the easy ladder to go down the easy slide while I hovered near, climbing behind them on the ladder, holding hands down the slide, freaking out when they crowded each other at the top of the slide; you know, all the responsible things.

I noticed with interest when the other family with twins arrived; the kids were boy/girl and looked to be identically aged to Monkey and Turtle, and the parents seemed to be close to my age as well (I notice the parents’ ages, being a little older than most mothers of two year olds). We sat at tables next to each other and I saw the look the other twin momma gave our table, then saw her murmur something to the twin daddy. I’m sure she was commenting about how good our girls were, sitting still and eating everything on their plates. How do I know this? Because I was watching in absolute astonishment as THEIR kids took one bite of food and then rushed back to the playscape – the “big” side of the playscape, mind you – and played and played, up and down and all around, without so much as a stumble. I noticed their parents never took their eyes off the kids, yet neither did they hover like overanxious hens. They sat at their table and watched their kids have a blast.

I confirmed with the other twin momma that there was in fact just a one week difference in the ages of our children (hers were younger). I sighed as we left, realizing that “I have twins” would no longer suffice as my reason for avoiding play equipment over 12 inches tall. I know Turtle’s fall earlier this year (see Letting Go, April 16) has continued to haunt me. I know I have to try again to let go of that fear. I know it’s time for me to sit at my table and watch my kids have a blast. Will I actually do that? Stay tuned . . . .

Book Reviews

I mentioned in my last post that I read a lot; I thought I’d talk about four books I’ve read lately that are a good sampling of the types of books I read in general. I checked out all of them from the Austin Public Library. I really like the feature of being able to go online and request a specific book from the library – it's routed to my chosen library when it’s available, I get an email, and it’s waiting for me to pick up on my next trip. I also enjoy getting parenting books from the library first, because after I’ve read it once I can decide whether the book is worth owning. These are just two tiny reasons why I think the public library is awesome, and not just for kids. This concludes my public service announcement for the library system; let’s get on to the book reviews.

One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel García Márquez. Considering that this is one of the most acclaimed novels by one of the most significant authors of the 20th century, you may be surprised that I’ve just gotten around to reading it. But it was never required reading for me, so I just read it last month. Here’s what I learned. It’s long. It’s dense. You have to pay close attention to keep track of the characters. There’s a lot of magical realism in it (which is to say, there’s an element of fantasy but without hobbits, wizards, or sexy vampires). I had to struggle to finish it, and I consider myself an avid reader who finishes every book she starts. It’s also amazing and inspiring (if you admire the art of writing) and the characters kind of sit in your bones as permanent residents of your psyche, flitting in and out of your memory as you go about your week. Also, people who know about books will think you are really smart when they see you reading this at the airport.

Goodnight, Nobody, Jennifer Weiner. This is classic contemporary chick-lit fiction, or “beach reading” as I like to call it. I read it simultaneously with One Hundred Years because I thought I might need something light to break up my heavy reading, and I was right. It’s a murder mystery set among stay-at-home moms in suburban Connecticut. The main character finds being a suburban SAHM gloomy and oppressive so that ruffled my feathers a little, but I got over it and enjoyed the book. I think it is above average quality and it may not be fair to label it “beach reading.” You won’t get nods of approval from literary snobs at the airport, but you won’t feel embarrassed that you read it, either.

How to Talk so Kids will Listen and Listen so Kids will Talk, Adele Farber and Elaine Mazlish. My name is Twin Momma, and I’m addicted to parenting books. There, I said it. I think I read at least one each month; I can’t get enough of them. I’d like to own this one so I can obsessively reread it over the next ten+ years. It is a very practical book about, well, how to talk to and listen to your kids. It gives great examples, uses cartoon illustrations effectively, and generally gives you real words to use in real situations. I especially liked the section on how to praise effectively. I found myself saying “you’re so good” and “you’re so smart” all the time but this explains how to praise the action to build self esteem, like, “It’s so fun to go places with you when you hold my hand and stay close!” or “You kept on working on that snap until you got it closed – now that’s what I call determination!” Yes it’s dorky but I swear I’m already seeing more smiles on my girls faces when I compliment them now, and that’s all I really care about. This book dovetails fairly nicely with The Happiest Toddler on the Block.

Things Fall Apart, Chinua Achebe. Back to the acclaimed classics that will impress your airport friends. If you want a real review, go to Amazon and read the official one there, it’s pretty thorough. I’ll just tell you this book is a little bit more accessible as far as your literary classics go – it’s not too long, it’s easy to keep up with the one main character, and the prose is simple. It’s about pre-colonial Nigerian tribal life and it’s centered around the life of Okonkwo. See, I was actually able to tell you what it was about. If you asked me what One Hundred Years of Solitude was about I’d just kind of shrug my shoulders and shake my head.

As I come to a close I’d like to recommend one last book to you, one that I consult almost every day: The Six O’Clock Scramble. It’s a great cookbook, especially if you don’t know how/don’t like to cook but need to figure it out because now you’re a stay-at-home-mom and you feel responsible for making dinner every night. Simple, tasty, healthy meals that even I can make, and I swear that is really saying something.

Happy Reading!

Happy 1st Birthday, I See Two!

One year ago today I posted my first entry here. My expectation was that I would post 3-4 witty, pithy posts each week, develop a large readership, become a well-known Mommy Blogger, and receive invitations to guest post at other famous blogs and possibly get a regular writing gig at an online magazine.

As usual, my great expectations didn’t take into account little details like “doing the work” and “promoting my blog.” I guess I just thought Oprah would somehow stumble across my blog one day and the rest would take care of itself. After a couple of months of writing, though, I realized a few things:

One, it is hard to come up with something truly interesting to say several times a week, and I don’t have the motivation to make myself work that hard. I accepted that one post a week was all I really cared to write, and even then I would settle for “semi-interesting to my family,” or “mildly amusing to people who know me.” Two, I’m not that interested in reading other people’s blogs, getting to know other mommy bloggers, looking for opportunities to guest blog, or mastering the technology to drive more traffic to my blog. After researching other blogs and blogging in general for a few weeks, I realized there is a hell of a lot of noise out there and I didn’t want to put forth the effort to make my blog rise above the din. Three, I’m not as motivated to get my essays published as I thought I was. I have actually taken a few things I’ve written in this blog, developed them into full essays, and submitted them to print and online magazines for publication consideration, without success. A professional writer would say I haven’t put enough effort out because I’ve sent each piece to only 3 or 4 places and have done this with only 3 or 4 pieces. And that is true. But I’m not interested in using my time to mail or email my work to the (literally) hundreds of places that I could submit, and so I don’t.

I’ve come to recognize my surprising lack of motivation when it comes to writing (my supposed life-long passion) and I’ve made peace with it for the time being. I do feel like I actually have the time to do the things I’d need to do to develop a freelance writing career if I really, really wanted to, but I guess I don’t really want to. I find myself some nights, eating my second bowl of ice cream and watching old reruns of Star Trek: The Next Generation, and I think, “hmm, I could be writing right now if I really felt like it, couldn’t I?”

I plan to continue I See Two for the foreseeable future, plugging away at my weekly post, and continuing to use the rest of my spare time to read (usually at least one book per week, alternating between parenting books and fiction novels), keep house, exercise, and eat ice cream. Maybe someday in the future I’ll be able to point to five years of weekly posts to convince an editor that I could, in fact, be trusted with a weekly column. But for now, I’ll just keep waiting for Oprah to find me.

Being the grown-up

Real Simple Magazine is sponsoring an essay contest that asks you to answer the question, “When did you realize that you had become a grown-up?” I’m not motivated enough to produce a polished essay on the topic, but I’ve been thinking about that question for months now. It wasn’t when I first became a parent, which is one of the expected, cliché answers. I didn’t even feel like a parent in the beginning. I simply felt a fierce, evolutionary responsibility for the new pets in my care, and there were only a few surreal moments in the first weeks when I would realize that these pets were, in fact, two little girls – my daughters - and I was the mother. So no, it wasn’t an instantaneous, now-I’m-the-grownup feeling. As I gradually grew to know and love my babies, so did I gradually become the grown up.

When I first saw the question for the Real Simple contest back in June, I thought with a start, “Now. Now that you ask me, I realize that I do actually feel like a grown-up.” It is kind of a weird feeling, and still pretty new, having lived my first 37 years not feeling at all grown-up inside. Oh sure, I was ultra-responsible, professionally successful, married, owned a house, etc., but none of those external indicators really matured the child inside. I can’t even say exactly what it is about the kids that turned me into a grown-up. Truly putting their well-being ahead of my own? Realizing that my words, actions, and behavior would be their primary model of womanhood? Being able to step back into the mother/daughter cycle of life after being on the outside looking in for so long?

These are big questions, and perhaps if I would take the time to eloquently describe the earthquake-like shifts that have taken place in my psyche, I’d have an essay to submit to Real Simple. But I can only offer the following external behaviors as proof that I have, in fact, grown up.

Exhibit A: Cat Vomit. I adopted my cat, Kosmo, in 1999, while I was renting a house with my friend R.H. One day he vomited on the carpet in my bedroom. I did what any reasonable person would do: I covered it up with a paper bag and went about my business. My boyfriend (Twin Daddy) learned then that if the relationship was going to continue, he would have to accept that I would never, ever, ever clean up cat vomit, kill a giant cockroach (even if it was crawling across the kitchen counter), or in any way deal with the bodily functions or remains of any being that crossed my path. I would simply put up some markers to indicate the area of the mess and wait for him to clean it up. And I could wait forever.

Then one day, my daughters began to crawl. And the cat vomited on the floor. I hurried to clean it up, without a second thought. Giant roaches have been crawling into my house to die of thirst since April. I pick them up and throw them out, without so much as a gross-out face. I even discarded of the dead baby tarantula I found in the garage before Monkey could pick it up.

Exhibit B: Cooking. One of the things that attracted me to Twin Daddy as a long term partner was his gourmet cooking skills. It was a guarantee that I would never be expected to cook a holiday meal or bake a birthday cake. It’s not just that I couldn’t cook well. I really didn’t like anything about cooking and found it to be an undertaking utterly without merit. I didn’t care what food tasted like, as long as I was no longer hungry when I finished eating it. And since it could be purchased ready to eat, I didn't see what all the fuss over cooking was about.

So then I had these two kids, and I was overcome with desire to stay home with them, make their pureed baby food from scratch, and have a warm dinner waiting for my husband when he came home. I addressed the little matter of not knowing how to cook by just doing it, a lot. I also got a really good cookbook, some cute aprons, and other accoutrements to make me feel like I was playing 50s housewife. I still don’t like to cook. But I’ve discovered the merit: a sense of pride in providing my family a healthy, home cooked meal.


How do I know I’ve grown up? I take pride in performing all parts of my job, even the parts I don’t like. I cheerfully do things I scorned in the past, because those things benefit my family. I embrace the responsibility of knowing that my children look up to me, the grown-up.

Monkey pee-peed in the Potty!

After three days of watching sis get the applause, Monkey decided tonight was her night. She'd let a little dribble out, stand up to look into the potty, then say "mas," and sit back down, do a little more, get up to look into the potty, say "mas," sit again, and so on about 10 times. Turtle went on the potty, too. Very cute and exciting, but very messy and a lot of work to clean up. So I'm going to continue on this once a day routine for awhile because I'm not ready to spend all day doing this, even if they are.

Turtle pee-peed in the potty!!

The title tells you everything you need to know. But if you want every gory detail, read on.

About six weeks ago I read a potty training book to figure out what I should be doing to prepare for the daunting task of potty training. It’s not that I thought the girls were ready (they’re only 21 months old), I just thought I needed a really long lead time to get myself ready. I bought two potty chairs and a board book about a little girl getting a new potty. I put the chairs away and spent the last month reading “A Potty for Me” every now and then, and talking about the potty at every opportunity. The girls accompany me to the bathroom, and like to flush the toilet. They point to their correct body parts and say “pee pee” and “poo poo.” They come and tell me when they have “poo poo” in their diaper and essentially lead me to the changing table for a fresh diaper.

We’d gotten to the point where we’d talked potty talk to death, so I decided today was the day to introduce the potty chairs. The girls knew immediately what the chairs were. We let them play with the chairs for awhile in the living room, and then took them to the bathroom. The plan was and continues to be to let them sit on the chairs with or without their diaper once or twice a day until it seems like they’re ready for actual training, which I am assuming is still several months away, if not more.

I had planned for “sitting” time to be a casual and unproductive affair, with no expectation other than to practice sitting. We helped the girls sit and then started singing a couple of little songs, and then all of a sudden we heard the unmistakable sound of pee going into Turtle’s potty! Twin Daddy and I cheered and clapped wildly for our little Turtle, and she was quite pleased with herself. Monkey was not too sure what all the commotion was about, but we praised her for sitting, which is all we’re really trying to do at this point.

I am trying not to get too ahead of myself here, but I have to say I was thrilled and not completely surprised about Turtle’s performance. She always goes off and squats somewhere to go to the bathroom, so it seems like she understands what she is doing and was just waiting for me to get the darn chair out and get on with it. Despite this immediate success, though, I’m still going to take it very, very slow. Diapers are pretty convenient, and I’m in no hurry for our outings to turn into nothing more than multiple potty stops along Anderson Lane. Besides that, once my babies are out of diapers . . . . well, I can’t even go there.

Preschool Insanity

I have spent close to $500 on preschool application and wait list fees over the past 12 months. I say this both to confess my sin and to publicly shame myself into stopping the insanity. And the hours I have spent researching online and visiting God only knows how many schools? I don’t even want to think about it. After all of that, I hired a college girl to come to our house three mornings a week through the summer.

Now her last day with us is looming large, and I’m back to the same quandary that pushed me to hire her in the first place: I can’t find my perfect preschool home. The places I do manage to kind of like are either for older preschoolers or have a wait list I should have gotten on when I was pregnant. On top of that, I can’t decide what I want education wise (Traditional? Montessori? Waldorf? Parochial?) or schedule wise (Full time? Mother’s day out? Full days 2 or 3 days a week? Mornings only but every day?). The options are endless. So I put myself on the wait list at every place I kind of like, and continue on with my research, my visits, and my filling out of wait list forms.

The search should be over at this point. We are in a good position on the wait list at a preschool I immediately liked very much, where the girls can go next fall. I have already paid the hefty registration fee for a two-mornings-a-week Mother’s Day Out program at a nearby church, which starts August 25. Yet I spent the better part of the last hour researching a couple of other places – this one is on acres of land with a horse stable attached! That one has the children gardening and hiking and sewing and caring for a variety of farm animals every day!! Why would I put them in city preschools with pea-gravel and plastic playgrounds when they could be learning to live off the land!!!

I didn’t think much about any of these things while I was pregnant because I used to know that the best indicator for a child’s success is having involved, well-informed parent advocates. But having the luxury of choice and an insane variety of opportunities has turned me into a lunatic. Yesterday I was walking through Sears and I saw a girls' dorm room display. I smiled as I glimpsed ahead to the day I’d be helping my girls get their dorm rooms ready. Then I immediately began to panic – college applications, campus visits (in-state? out-of-state? private? public?), application consultants, SAT prep courses? I think I better start saving now for the pre-college exploration fund I'll most certainly need. . .

How to Make a Toddler Happy

I’ve learned the secret to making my toddlers happy: I do what they want. Turtle insists on a “geen” plate, dumping her blue plate full of food directly on the floor with a scream. “No problem,” I say with a smile. I pick up the food from the floor, put it on the green plate, and put it back on her tray. She eats. Peace is restored. I hand her a cup of milk with a yellow lid. She throws it on the floor, crying for “pur pu.” I pick up the cup, put on a purple lid, and hand it back to her. She drinks. I await the next command.

Monkey doesn’t care about her eating implements. However. Her feet must not touch the ground outside of our home. If we step through the front or back door, she throws up her arms, begins to whine, and won’t move her feet. “Do you want to walk?” I ask when I open the car door at our destination, knowing the answer. If I even think about refusing, she’ll throw herself on the ground, wherever we are, and scream. This is generally frowned on by People, so I carry her. A lot.

The demands change frequently and randomly, but I manage to keep the daily OCD matrix organized: which “blankie” is used for stargazing in the nursery, and which side must face up; which doll each girl is mothering that day; the fact that Monkey does not allow her baby to have a pacifier while Turtle insists hers must have a pacifier; which foods, books, toys, clothes are in favor and which are currently despised (this week, bananas are absolutely OUT).

I think it was The Happiest Toddler on the Block that advised me to push to get my way for the important 10% and to let my toddlers got their way the other 90% of the time. I think that’s pretty good advice. I may be a little indulgent, but I look at it this way: It’s the only time in my life I’ll be able to so easily make people so happy. I spent a decade working in fields where I negotiated for clients day in and day out, and in many cases it took days or weeks of long, drawn out, emotionally exhausting discussions to help a person arrive at a point where they were satisfied with their outcome, and occasionally happy with it. The instant gratification of turning a crying toddler into a happy toddler is a high I can’t get enough of.

And when the girls get older, sitting Mr. Lovey in the high chair with his own piece of pizza won’t be enough to make Turtle happy. I won’t be able force the mean girl at the playground to take back what she said to Turtle, or force the right boy to ask Monkey to the school dance. They’ll roll their eyes when I tell them how I used to juggle purple lids and green plates in one hand while holding Monkey in the other. So as long as they look to me as the center of the universe, I’m very happy to play the all-powerful wizard, making their every wish come true. Soon enough, the girls will pull back the curtain and see that I’m a mere mortal. I dread that day.

Poems

Please excuse my long absence, dear reader. Twin Daddy had a ruptured appendix removed July 2 and since then I have had barely a moment to hold a thought in my head that wasn't related to the feeding or care of my three dependents. He is on the steady road to recovery, so I'm ready to get back to my favorite hobby.

I wrote these poems in June. They spilled out of my brain quickly and all at once, and while I thought this must mean they were without substance and specific to the facts of my day, I have found myself pondering the words and the various meanings they hold for me ever since. I humbly share them with you.

June 2009-1
I love
That my cell phone rarely rings
And that I don’t get much email
That I don’t know
What is going on in Iran
Or what 107 feels like
Because I stay inside
Sheltered
With my babies

June 2009-2
Sometimes I can run fast.
Sometimes I have to go slow,
and take deep breaths.
Either way
I reach the finish line.

Parents say the Darndest Things

When correcting Turtle and Monkey, I try to keep it short: “No hitting,” “No biting,” “No throwing food.” I do this to save my voice, since I say the aforementioned three sentences, and many others just like them, at least a thousand times a day.

I didn't expect to be a “No” parent. I carefully arranged our home to be as toddler-friendly as possible so that my little angels could thrive to their full potential, never being thwarted by the word “No.” But my imagination failed to match their curiosity, and so I am constantly saying “No” and pulling a child off a bookshelf (they have their own bottom shelf in every room, but only want the big books on the top shelf); out of the kitchen cabinets (they have their own cabinet to play in, just like the books instructed, but that isn’t enough); out of the toilet, out of the cat’s food, off the computer, out of the trash can, away from the hot stove, out of the plants, out of the diaper pail.

Sometimes I get confused by what I should say because the action is so random that I don’t even know how to describe it: “No . . . writing on your food?” I know I could be more nuanced in encouraging better behavior: “Kitty doesn’t like his food put into his water dish,” or “Markers are for paper, not for food.” But most of the time I just blurt out “No!” and then try to describe the offending behavior so they will know what to correct. Often what I say is so ridiculous that I look around to see if Candid Camera is watching. The following are the "No" statements in current rotation. These are in addition to my hourly diatribe of "No pushing, no biting, no hitting, no pulling hair, no throwing food," which I'm thinking of having tattoed on my face.

No putting bread on your head
No stepping on mommy’s face
No putting Lovey in the diaper pail
No pushing the highchair
No writing on your baby
No writing on the kitty
No writing on mommy
No climbing on the cat’s scratching post
No standing on the chair
No opening the washing machine
No banging on the window with Sonya Lee
No putting yogurt in your hair
No running when you have a pair of shorts on your head and can’t see
No pulling leaves off the inside plants
No eating Cheerios you find on the garage floor
No climbing on your table
No putting avocado in your hair
No standing in the tub
No touching the (insert every piece of technology you can think of).

I promise there are a million things they are allowed to do in the house. And I don’t always say “No.” There’s a whole other category of action that is not forbidden, just potentially unsafe. That’s my, “Be careful when you . . .” list. We’ll save that for another day.

Oh, Humanity

I have come to the realization that I am not super human. This fact is extremely annoying. It really cramps my style to have to take time out to eat and sleep every single day. Take Tuesday, for example. I had a small list of things to do while the girls napped: order flea medicine for the dog, address and stamp some Father’s Day cards, and do a prayer meditation to finally get to the root of the debilitating anxiety that has plagued me for a decade. Do you think I managed to do any of these things? Noooo. After I wasted 20 perfectly good minutes eating lunch, I found myself exhausted. “Oh yeah,” I thought to myself, “we had a really busy weekend and I didn’t sleep that much, so it’s catching up with me.” So I got into bed to rest for just a minute, and immediately fell into a deep sleep, waking well over an hour later to the sound of Turtle calling “mama, mama” into the monitor.

When I decided to stay home full time, I thought I would finally have time to get every nook and cranny of my house in perfect order, cook gourmet meals every evening, post daily to my heavily visited, income producing blog, write a book, and get my post-baby body into wedding-day shape. It has been quite a shock to learn that not only am I not physically capable of accomplishing these perfectly reasonable goals in the tiny windows of free time that I have, but that I need a mother’s helper three mornings a week just to maintain basic order and sanity.

Don’t tell me I’m being too hard on myself because I already know that. But I’ve lived my entire life measuring myself against an apparently impossible set of standards, and I can’t seem to find my “off” button. So I berate my body for stubbornly refusing to function on less than 8 hours of sleep when I clearly need at least 20 hours a day to meet my minimum goals. And I shake my fists in frustration when I am compelled to sit down and eat 3 or 4 times a day when there are filing cabinets to be organized, blog posts to be written, and psychoses to be healed.

Oh, and don’t worry that living this way is both unhealthy for me and a bad example for my daughters. I worry about that enough for the both of us. Now, please excuse me while I go make my list of all the things I won’t be getting done this weekend.

Sasha and her Dada

A couple of weeks ago I bought Turtle and Monkey a new board book, Barack Obama 101. The first page is a photo of the First Family and as I named each person in the picture, both girls shouted, “Sasha!” It must be a delightfully fun word to say as a new speaker – fast, slow, loud, soft - because all day long we hear “Sasha SESHA Sa-SHA sesha Sasha Sasha?” Turtle in particular asks for Sasha often, which means I have to go find the book, open it to Sasha’s picture, and let her give it a kiss. We have to put “Sasha” in her bed (the bookshelf) at naptime and at bedtime, and Turtle often cries when I ask her to put Sasha down for her nap. Then she’ll repeatedly ask about her (“She’s going to sleep right now Turtle”) until I turn out the light and leave the room.

Needless to say, we’ve renamed the book Sasha. They call the other character Dada. Sometimes we try to correct: “honey, that’s President Obama and yes, he’s a man like your Dada.” But most of the time we just say, “yep, that’s Sasha’s Dada” and go on to the pages featuring Sasha’s big white house, Sasha’s airplane, Sasha’s helicopter, and Sasha’s limousine.

I am thrilled out of my mind at this development. It happened almost simultaneously with their discovery of babies, about which I'm a little more ambivalent. One day they just started pointing at strollers and saying “Babies? Babies? Babies?” Then they found their dolls and tried to wrap them in blankets and put diapers on them. I was shocked at this turn of events, having neither encouraged nor discouraged dolls, instead just letting them sit ignored in the bin with the dozens of other apparently uninteresting stuffed animals. But suddenly every stuffed animal is also an object to be loved, and petted, and carried around, and kissed. So one day, I have two babies dipping spoons in cat litter and the next I have two little girls who love their Sasha, put their dollies to bed, and carry around stuffed puppies like they were real dogs.

I have to confess that I looked for a Sasha doll online. Twin Daddy disapproved. But I looked anyway, and guess what? Michelle Obama disapproves too. It’s probably for the best – the girls have already moved on to calling each of their dollies “Sasha,” which is infinitely more creative than me handing them a Sasha doll. It also shows me that they don't need a black doll to have a Sasha, and I'm proud that they are more color blind than I am.

With every new action the girls take, I wonder - what kind of connections are they making in their little brains right now? How will this early fascination with Sasha and Dada Obama develop their views on race? How do I encourage balanced play with gender-neutral toys when it’s so darned cute to watch them try to diaper their baby dolls?

And most importantly, where did my babies go, and who are these little mamas who have taken their place?

Happy Birthday Twin Momma!

On the eve of my 37th birthday, I have just one thing to say: Life is good.

No More Pink Baseball Gloves!

The title of this post is my spin on the famous “no more wire hangers” scene from the movie Mommy Dearest. I think I’m a pretty patient and loving mom. But I have to say, if I ever see the aforementioned sporting good in my house I might go a little Mommy Dearest on someone myself.

Let me explain. I like pink. I’ve owned a couple of pink t-shirts in my day. I used to pretend I was one of the Pink Ladies from Grease. But I don’t know how or why pink has become the defining color of girlhood. Shirts, pants, dresses, bathing suits, shoes, shorts, potty chairs, tennis rackets, golf clubs, bicycles, all covered in flowers or butterflies, Disney princesses, Dora, or Hannah Montana. It is hard to shop for girls at a mainstream retail store and find something that is not pink with a princess on it. It’s no better for boys, who have the choice of blue or green, dog or shark, or Diego or Spiderman. The commercialism and the pink each make me crazy in their own special ways, and every time I go shopping for something for the girls, I end up gnashing my teeth and shaking my fist at the marketing gods.

I will admit I am a little biased against girly things – I scorned dresses as a girl; they got in the way of chasing boys and playing football, and I felt ridiculous (and angry) every time my mother forced one on me. My favorite thing to do as a young child was to sit outside and get dirty making sand castles and mudpies, and when I was a little older I liked to shoot hoops, ride my (red) bike, or climb a tree and pretend I was Harriet the Spy. My absolute favorite thing of all was to play catch with my well-worn brown leather glove (which was actually a hand-me-down from the boy next door, adding to its cache). I was proud the day I got hit in the mouth with a baseball thrown a little too fast by that neighbor, leaving me the biggest fat lip of my life, and I was disappointed it was summer so I couldn’t show off my injury at school. I loved playing t-ball, then softball; I was good at both, and playing those sports is one of my fondest childhood memories.

So let’s bring all that history of me into Target on that fateful day last month. Twin Daddy was looking for a toddler-sized soccer ball for the girls. I was browsing the sporting goods aisles, dreaming of the day when my girls would play in the mud and get hit in the face with baseballs. Then suddenly -BAM- I saw it, sitting on a peg. A pink baseball glove. I wasn’t sure if I would vomit or if my head would explode, so I put my hands on the side of my head and bent my chin to my chest to collect myself. Then I went and found Twin Daddy and unleashed a rampage on him, about how baseball was about being strong and running and catching and practicing and sweating and not about collecting flowers in right field with your f*%^$*# pink baseball glove.

He didn’t pay me much mind, as he was too busy trying to find a small soccer ball free of sparkly butterflies or blue sharks.

Twin Momma Takes a Break

I had a four day at-home vacation this past week when my friends M.D. and S.A. came to visit. I’m still recovering from eating my weight in barbecue and Tex-Mex and talking until the wee hours of the night (10:30PM). Since M.D. forced me to take a much-needed break from my childcare responsibilities by flying all the way from South Carolina (leaving her two kids behind), I want to honor her visit by continuing my break. I See Two is on hiatus this week. Check in next week for my diatribe against the children’s marketing machine that produced that vile pink baseball glove I saw at Target last month.

Uh-Oh

MEMO

To: Turtle and Monkey

From: Twin Momma

RE: Use of “Uh-Oh”

It has come to my attention that, despite repeated explanations, the phrase “uh-oh” is being grossly misused by certain members of this family. I hope this written explanation of the proper use of “uh-oh” will clear up the misunderstanding.

“Uh-Oh” is a phrase accompanying a minor, accidental, mishap. I cannot emphasize enough that the mishap must be accidental in order for “uh-oh” to apply. When your cup of milk slips out of your hands because they are wet from eating pineapple, that is an uh-oh. When you pick up your cup, look directly at me, and then throw the cup on the floor, saying “uh-oh” is not appropriate and will not make your insolent cup-throwing “cute” or “funny.”

You should also note that “uh-oh” comes after the accidental mishap has taken place, not before. Saying “uh-oh” right before you intentionally throw your plate of food on the floor is not acceptable.

When you tug and pull until you’ve ripped the flap off the page of your “lift the flap” book, don’t say “uh-oh.” You did it on purpose. I know you’re at that age of experimentation and all, but you’ve already ripped all the frogs out of your pop-up book and I can’t stand watching books get destroyed. Also, when you stand up in your crib and throw your Lovey out onto the floor, that is not an uh-oh. I know it’s a fun game for you and I don’t mind it at all, but I’d prefer if you said something like, “Mother, will you please hand me back my Lovey so I can throw him out again?”

One notable exception: when “uh-oh” is being used to refer to an earlier mishap. For example, the other day Turtle fell in the driveway and scraped her knee, and it bled a little and had to be cleaned up with Neosporin. Throughout the evening and all the next day, Turtle pointed to her scraped knee every now and then and said, “uh-oh,” apparently as a reminder of the incident, and/or to let us know that her ouchie still hurt. While this is not the traditional usage, it is extremely cute and will be allowed to continue. However, when you (Turtle) bite your sister so hard that it leaves a bruise, pointing at the bite bruise the next day and saying “uh-oh” is not appropriate. So not appropriate.

Now that the proper use of “uh oh” has been thoroughly explained, there is no reason to misuse the phrase any longer. Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Mrs. B gets an apron

I'm very pleased to report that Twin Daddy got me exactly what I requested for Mother's Day: a "Mrs. B" monogrammed, 50s inspired apron, along with a new set of kitchen towels. I asked (begged) for these things in March, promising that they were not symbols of oppression, but rather things I needed for my new cutesy housewife/mom role. In a surprising coincidence, my mother-in-law hand sewed me a retro (reversible!) apron for Mother's Day as well! I'm sure my cooking skills will soon catch up with my snazzy accessories. Until then, I'll be the best-dressed server of overcooked chicken on the block.

A Mother Remembered

Today a friend sent me a New York Times essay written by a motherless mother whose children have started to ask questions about their missing Grandma. She wonders how to explain to her children where her mother is, and why that Grandma isn’t around. It made me wonder how I will handle those questions when the time comes. I’m pretty sure I’ll tell Turtle and Monkey something like this:

When I dance and sing wildly in the car - while I'm driving - there is your Grandma.

When I make a cake that is both lopsided and burnt around the edges, there is your Grandma.

When I help you check out books from the library, there is your Grandma.

When I curse in Spanish, there is your Grandma.

When I treat your childish worries as seriously as my own, there is your Grandma.

When I brag non-stop about every little thing my two daughters do, there is your Grandma.

And so you see, I will tell them, she is all around you. Her love for you flows through my heart and into yours every single day.

To all the mothers, aunts, godmothers, and mother-figures, living among us or living in our hearts, Happy Mother’s Day.

Twin Momma Do's and Don'ts

I don't have any overwrought emotional tales to share this week, so I thought I'd go very light. Here is my official list of "6 Do's and Don'ts for Handling a Twin Momma"

1. Do open the door for her when you see her coming. Yes, she is perfectly capable of pushing her double stroller through the door with one hand while holding the door open with the other, and she’s got the biceps to prove it. But it wears her out. Same goes when you see her coming your way carrying a baby in each arm. She can probably open the door without even putting a baby down, but if she could breeze through without that extra effort it might ease her exhaustion. Open the door even when she says, “I’ve got it!” with a happy, independent smile on her face. She desperately needs help and is just faking her chipper attitude. She could never make it through the day without the kindness of strangers.

2. Do compliment her adorable children. Every momma thinks her baby is the most beautiful on earth, and twin mommas are no exception. She just happens to have two children tied for most beautiful on earth. The praise you lavish on her and her children will give her a boost of happy energy to get her through the next hour.

3. Don’t use a fully functioning double “car” cart at the grocery store if you have only one child. I can’t stress enough how her blood will boil if she has to put her twins in a car cart that is missing a steering wheel, while your single child enjoys the luxury of two steering wheels.

4. Don’t ask which side of the family the twins came from. It’s a little embarrassing to explain fertility drugs to a perfect stranger. And some twin mommas get downright irate at this question. She also doesn’t want to hear about your uncle’s cousin’s daughter who has twins. Yes, she knows people are fascinated by twins. But she only cares about hers, so just tell her they are beautiful and move along (See #2).

5. Don’t state the obvious. If the babies look nothing alike; if one is a blond and the other is a brunette; if one looks like her mother and the other looks like the stork brought her, you can bet the twin momma already knows this. There is no reason to exclaim it aloud, adding, “Well don’t that just beat all!” or “Have you ever seen such a thing?” You’re giving all three of them a complex.

6. Do recognize that she is often an object of curiosity and she may or may not enjoy the extra attention that her twins bring to her. She may have answered the question you just asked or heard the observation you just made three times that day already. So try not to be offended if her answers are short or she doesn’t chat with you as long as you’d wanted. She’s doing her best to be a good twin momma ambassador but sometimes, she’s just tired. In any event, open the door as wide as you can, give her a big smile, and tell her she’s going a great job with those beautiful children. You will absolutely make her day.

Eighteen Months

Turtle and Monkey are eighteen months old today. I’ve been looking forward to this huge milestone, assured by many moms that “things will be a lot easier” at eighteen months. They were right. It is, finally, thankfully, easier. Not easy. Just easier. I feel a weight of sadness today too, though. Where did my little babies go? Last night Turtle put a purse on her shoulder, went to the door, and waved “bye-bye.” It made me think ahead to the day when she will actually walk out the door: going over to a friend’s house, or back to college, or home to her spouse. I cried a little. Where did my babies go? I want to remember everything that is passing so quickly.

I want to remember:

How Turtle runs away, laughing, when I try to dress her or change her diaper.

How Monkey un-self consciously sways her hips to dance.

How Turtle says “thk thk thk” and tickles me under the chin with little hands that don’t really know how to tickle.

How I felt the first time Monkey brought me her shoe when I asked her to.

How, when the car seats still faced the back, Turtle would puts her hand up and out over her head, yelling a little, waiting for me to put Mr. Lovey into her hands.

How Monkey screams when she turns on the fire truck siren, trying to mimic its sound.

How Turtle waves at the girl illustrating “waving” in My Little Word Book.

How Monkey fussed until I let her take a book into her crib at naptime, before she was even 16 months old.

How Turtle squeals with laughter when you tickle or chase her.

How Monkey has her Lovey “kiss” the character on each page of our bedtime story, I Love You, Goodnight

How Turtle’s breathing sounds as she’s cradled in my arms, gnawing on Mr. Lovey, when I’m putting her in her crib for the night.

How it feels to have Monkey’s full weight against my chest and her head resting on my shoulder.

How it feels to bask in the unconditional adoration of the two most amazing little girls on the planet.

Happy Toddlerhood, my beautiful daughters.

Letting Go

Well, it finally happened. Turtle fell off the four-foot playscape at our neighborhood playground, landing face first into the pea gravel. She is totally, completely fine, but the slow motion replay of her fall is all I can see. The dangling over the edge. The slow tipping forward. The other mother and I rushing towards her. The long fall that seemed to last forever, but not quite long enough for the mother one foot away to break her fall. The face plant, the crying, the frantic call to the pediatrician for guidance, the comforting by the other mothers, the retelling to Twin Daddy.

Turtle is fine. She cried hard for a couple of minutes and then reached for her snack cup. I feel like I’m recovering from a trauma. Turtle has had several minor injuries involving blood because she is both adventurous and a little unstable, due to her oversized toddler head and itty bitty bottom. But nothing this frightening. If Monkey had been dangling over the edge, she probably could have pulled herself back up because she inherited a very sturdy bottom half from Twin Momma. But tiny Turtle just went straight down.

I know it was an accident that could have happened to anyone. I know I can’t physically be in two places at the same time, so when the toddlers run in opposite directions, I just have to do my best. I know kids fall ALL the time, and it is to be expected. I’ve heard at least a dozen bad fall stories that all have happy endings. But when it’s your kid, none of that matters. All you feel is horrible and awful because something bad happened to your child. And that carefully constructed façade of total control? Forget it. You can limit sweets and TV to your heart’s content, but you can’t control the universe. Unpleasant things will happen to your child, and you can’t stop it. That’s the hard truth that splintered my façade of control when Turtle hit the ground Wednesday. Facing this truth has been somewhat traumatic, but at the same time, I feel a release. Like I’ve been forced to let go, just a little bit, of my drive to be perfect and in control. Instead, I have to accept the reality of parenthood. And I know that a real parent, not a perfect parent, is just what my girls need.

Easter Baskets

This past Saturday Turtle and Monkey hunted Easter Eggs for the first time. “Hunt” is probably too generous a word – the extra-large plastic eggs were simply put on the ground in a small area on the church lawn roped off for toddlers. Then the girls wandered around picking up eggs and putting them in the baskets Twin Daddy and I eagerly held in front of their faces. Nonetheless, eggs were found and collected, and we all enjoyed it.

What was really special about the hunt, though, is that the girls forgot about their baskets the instant we moved on to the petting zoo. Twin Daddy pointed out that for the first and probably last time, the girls don’t care about their Easter baskets. There was no fighting over who stole whose egg, no competition over how many eggs were found, no negotiating over how much of the candy could be eaten before lunch. The baskets have been sitting in the laundry room since Saturday, and no one has complained that Twin Momma ate the candy out of the few eggs that actually had candy in them (this was a proper yuppie hunt so most of the eggs had animal crackers, goldfish, raisins, toys or stickers in them). They don’t know what candy is, they don’t know whose eggs I’m using when I take a couple out for playtime, and they don’t care that the eggs are all mixed up at this point.

I know this is not going to last much longer. We are in a very small window where the girls enjoy what they are offered, without wanting anything. They simply absorb the moment and move on to the next one. The only thing they ever ask for is food (which is referred to in general as “apple”) and milk (“buh”). One might bring you a book to read to her, and the other might stand at the front door hoping you’ll take her out to ring the wind chime. That’s it. It’s a pretty blissful existence if you ask me. They don’t care what they wear. They don’t care what toys they have. They don’t watch TV or movies so they don’t know what's "in."

How do we maintain this simplicity? I doubt it can be done, and I’ve resigned myself to fighting this losing battle in little ways. I’ve stopped catalogs from coming into the house (using http://www.catalogchoice.org/), because I don’t want my two-year-old pointing out the bedding set she wants from the Land of Nod catalog. I try to limit trips to the store with them, so they don’t become accustomed to shopping. We try not to eat or drink anything in front of them that we wouldn’t want them to have (I save my ice cream binges for after they go to bed, fully aware that I am a hypocrite).

I don’t know if these and other little measures I’m taking are going to amount to anything in the long run, considering the overall excess of the world we live in. But it’s such a fleeting period of total control over what they see, eat, and do, that I’m letting my inner control freak go wild. I’ll loosen up soon enough, don’t worry. For now, though, I’m enjoying my pure, innocent little girls, who want nothing more than to take each other’s hand and explore the simple wonder of the world.

One small victory

It’s been a hell of a week. Monkey had her first-ever wheezing episode Monday afternoon, resulting in a rushed trip to the pediatrician and a couple of doses of Albuterol administered through a nebulizer to get her breathing back to normal, and a couple of middle of the night doses at home to keep her stable. By Wednesday she was totally fine, and by “fine” I mean she tried to stuff both her and her sister’s lovey into the diaper pail and she used her spoon to play in the litter box. Both things happened while I was trying to take care of Turtle, who is getting two molars and is not very happy about it. Like I said, rough week.

But this morning, a small ray of light for Twin Momma. It was looking like another bad day: I tried to put Monkey into her booster chair for breakfast and she would have none of it. We graduated from high chairs this past weekend, but it turns out that it really isn’t about the chair. That girl just wants to sit in my lap at breakfast time. I guess she thinks, “Hey, we’ve been apart for twelve hours lady, can you just hold me for ten minutes while I eat?” I can see her point and usually give in, but this morning was different. First of all, I hadn’t had my breakfast yet. And second, Turtle was still sleeping so I knew I’d have to go get her soon. So I said, “No, I will not hold you right now, you sit in your chair to eat.” I put her breakfast and milk right on the booster chair tray so she could think about it. When she refused the chair I let her wander around the kitchen whining and crying while I made myself a couple of pieces of gluten-free toast and a cup of instant decaf coffee. Mmmm, breakfast fit for a queen.

Monkey whined and whined and cried and I kept offering her the chair, and she kept saying, “No!,” so I kept working on my pitiful little breakfast and busying myself around the kitchen. This went on for a few minutes, and then a miracle. As I stirred the sugar into my coffee she went over to her chair and touched it and looked at me. “Do you want to sit in your chair?” I asked. She nodded yes. I helped her into her chair and she clapped her hands and started shoveling the scrambled eggs into her mouth. I really was so happy I almost cried, because I had been sure a Queen Kong meltdown was on its way. I showered her with praise and told her how proud I was of her for getting into her chair, and then I got my toast and sat across the table from her and we had breakfast together. It was wonderful.

I don’t know if I would have had the gumption to hold my ground like that had Turtle been awake. When I’m trying to manage them both at the same time, I really just do whatever I have to do to keep it together. It feels like there isn’t room for me to give that kind of focus to one when, for example, the other is digging around the litter box with a spoon. But Turtle blessed me this morning by sleeping in and giving me and Monkey the chance to establish who is in charge. I really think we both needed to know, and I really think we are both happy that it is still me.

Globalization

We plan to raise the girls to understand they are global citizens, and I’m hoping this will include multiple international trips while they are young. But I don’t envision any 8+ hour flights anytime soon and they’re a little young for lessons in foreign policy, so for now I’m just trying to make sure they develop a varied palate.

We started off with what is technically Chinese food, I guess, but it seems so basic it hardly counts: tofu sautéed in a soy sauce/honey/fresh ginger sauce. In a pinch, I can buy a side of brown rice from the Chinese restaurant down the road, throw in some broccoli, and have a sure meal. Of course, they are well versed in Tex-Mex, which I guess kind of counts as Mexican food. They’ve been eating guacamole since they were eight months old, and Monkey will happily down an entire cheese enchilada for dinner.

About six weeks ago I decided it was time to branch out. We tried Indian food first. The girls had a good snack before we left home so the food experience could be purely experimental. Twin Daddy and I both got Chicken Tikka Masala, medium spicy on the sauce. Monkey loved the naan (bread) and was dipping it into the masala sauce like a pro in no time. Turtle wasn’t so keen on the naan but she did really enjoy dipping her Ritz cracker into the sauce, so that was a great start. We had the same meal a second time around and Turtle enjoyed the naan that time, and they both had lots of rice with sauce and even a few bites of chicken. Then I made an “Indian stew” I found in Parents Magazine – I’m sure it has a real name but that’s what the magazine called it. Its primary base was yellow split peas and potatoes. The girls loved it but apparently I still need to develop my palate.

A couple of weeks later I found an “instant” Mujadara meal at Whole Foods. It’s a Mediterranean lentil and rice pilaf, and it’s delicious. The girls devoured it, so I found a recipe online and made a big batch for us – it’s so easy; it’s just lentils, rice, onions, cinnamon, cumin and olive oil. Things went so well with the mujadara that we thought we’d try out a Greek restaurant. The girls liked dipping their pita bread into the tzadziki (cucumber sauce) – they’re really into dipping right now. They had a couple of bites of falafel and kind of picked at some of the other things, so it was ok, but not the rousing success I had expected. Still, I got an extra side of the tzadziki, mixed it in with the leftover mujadara we had at home, and that was a hit.

Now, I have to admit, for me this was just building up to the moment when I could introduce the girls to the food I would eat every single day if I could afford to: sushi. I thought I would be crushed if they refused sushi, so I had to see how they reacted to other foods first. Based on their openness to at least trying the other foods, I thought it was safe to venture into my sacred territory. We went to a little Thai/Sushi restaurant down the street and kept it simple (and cooked, of course): a California roll and a Philadelphia roll. I sat next to Turtle; Twin Daddy sat with Monkey; Aunt V. sat across the table wondering how her sister turned into a silly yuppie who feeds her toddlers sushi.

I pulled a little piece off for Turtle and she took it, kind of played with it, and ate it, seaweed and all! That was enough for me to call the meal a complete success. She didn’t eat much more of the rice and seaweed – she didn’t like how the rice was so sticky she couldn’t get it off her fingers. But she did eat the “innards” of a piece of California roll (avocado, cucumber, crab stick) and Philadelphia roll (smoked salmon and cream cheese). She and Monkey also had several bites of my tofu Pad Thai. Monkey had a similar reaction to the sushi, trying little bites of the rolls and the innards. She was more interested in Twin Daddy’s chicken fried rice, though, a meal to which she’s more accustomed.

My hope in all this is that if we introduce them to enough flavors now, when one or the other gets to that weird toddler stage where they insist on eating the exact same thing for weeks on end, it will at least be something interesting, like sushi, and not lame, like toast. And so to that end, for the first time on this blog, I’m issuing a call for suggestions – which kid-tolerant Austin restaurants serving global cuisine do you like? Leave me a comment and we’ll (try) to give them a try! And I’ll let you know if my little experiment in globalizing toddlers’ taste buds works.