The Packrat's Guide to Spring Cleaning in Summer

I’m a packrat. There, I said it… It kills me to throw things away. I keep ridiculous things, things that I didn’t even like that much when I first got them. I save shoes I haven’t worn in years, tank tops that are stained and unwearable, and books that I will never read again. Why, you ask? I don’t know… Maybe it’s that I simply cannot ignore that little, nagging voice in the back of my head that says, “Wait, what if you really want that silly looking polka dotted tank top in size small, like, next week!!??” Right… Like that’s gonna happen. Even if I found it stylish, it wouldn’t fit and (let’s be honest) it never will again. That, combined with the very slight chance of an upcoming costume party… Still, that voice of anti-reason wins 90% of the time and I put that darn tank top right back on the shelf. Ahhhh. Maybe I’m hopeless.

Every summer or vacation, I decide that I am going to get the house in order. No more mess! That closet that desperately needs to be cleaned out, now’s the time. I’m not teaching, so it’s perfect timing, right? That desk drawer that is overflowing. Why, I think I’ll tackle that one too. And I mean it, I really do. My sincerity is unbreakable.  It’s just that when I make that ambitious plan, I fail to think about certain realities.

1-      I am a packrat. I know that I said this before, but I thought that I would remind you, as I clearly need to be reminded, myself. When’s the last time a packrat got that much cleaning up done in a short period of time? The only exception that comes to mind is pre-moving where the momentum of the stress overrides any natural tendencies you have in daily life.

2-      I am a procrastinator. Yes, I put things off. (As a side note, did you know that the French language doesn’t have a verb equivalent for procrastinate? If you want to translate that particular sentiment, you have to translate the expression “to put off until later”. Right, like that describes the sentiment properly… I think not!  It totally loses the judgment that you SHOULD have done it earlier.) Anyway, being a procrastinator, I would rather do almost anything except the one activity that I dread. In this case, cleaning up. I check my email, I do the dishes, I plan dinner, I cook dinner, I make doctors appointments… you name it. I am frequently productive in the other areas of our life, but I don’t clean up. Sound familiar?

3-      I have too much stuff to begin with. That means the job is already an enormous job. Now, you could be a wise guy and tell me that if I didn’t give in to my packrat tendencies and then procrastinate cleaning up, I wouldn’t have too much stuff. Fine, be that way! See if I care.

4-      I am already busy keeping up with daily life, with two kids. Actually, this is the only excuse that I don’t feel silly mentioning, as it’s really the most valid one, in my mind. Keeping up with 2 toddlers is exhausting. There is a ton to do, just to maintain daily life. Sometimes, when I do find “free time”, I just don’t have the mental energy to be productive. Despite the way I rightfully, chastise myself for the earlier excuses, I allow myself this excuse. I deserve to just sit down sometimes, and I’m ok with that.

It’s summer, as you know, and that time has come again. I have promised my husband, and myself, that I will get this crazy house in order while I’m not working out of the home. Progress has been slow, for the reasons mentioned above.

Which is why I added an item to my “to do” list: cleaning out the kids’ toys. Words cannot describe my inability to get rid of the toys that are no longer relevant, and this shows in the monstrosity of toys that take over our family room. When the kids have play dates, every toy gets taken out and you can’t walk without stepping on or tripping over something plastic. It has elements of horrifying, in a benign sort of way.

And I run into one additional problem. I’m a huge sap. When I look at the toys they used to play with, I don’t see the toy. I see my kids playing with the toy. I imagine them, in an earlier stage, before they had a certain skill or learned a certain word. I begin to daydream about the sweet way they used to be in that previous time and something comes over me. I can’t part with the toy. It’s like letting the memory go, and I just can’t do it. Like I said, I’m hopeless.

So my goal for the coming weeks is to overcome one small part of my incompetence. I WILL go through their toys and I WILL put a pile of them in the basement, followed by giving them away or selling them. When I struggle to let go, I will create a mental picture of my child handing this toy to a friend’s child. In my fantasy, the child on the receiving end will smile, giggle, and fall in love with the toy instantly. I know, it’s nuts. I’m a lunatic. Maybe the kid won’t even like it, but that’s not the point. If my mental insanity gets the toys out of my house, who cares?

The Beauty of Imperfect Parenting

We all have our days, great days, with our kids. They wake up happy, eat all their breakfast without a fuss, play happily all morning, sleep like champs… you get the picture. Often times, we play a role in this wonderful pattern by contributing some structure, and being good parents by not messing it up. But we probably didn’t cause it, at least not entirely. Never the less, these are the days I want to clone.

Other days, despite our best efforts, just need to be deleted. The well loved breakfast got dumped on the floor. Why? Who knows? The game that usually calms the tension of fatigue close to naptime fails miserably. Why? Who knows? All we know is that we aren’t have any fun.

I woke up today feeling pretty darn crappy. I started feeling congested a few days ago. By yesterday it was a headache and ear clog. Today it’s out of my head, invading my nose, throat and oh yeah… all the muscles of my body. I’m achy and tired, sneezing and coughing. Fun, fun. I’m not dying and have no intention of pretending I am. No doctor is interested in seeing me. They’ll tell me I have a virus and to rest. I have no intention of calling my husband home because I can function and he has to work. That said, if I were an out of the house worker, I would have called in sick and rested on the sofa. Alas, as a stay at home mom, that’s not so easy. Staying home means being at work.

What do to on such days?

First things first, we have no food in the house. At least no fresh food, and running out of milk just can’t happen. So, before the grumpies could take over, we took a trip to target. My kids LOVE target. They go through phases of asking to go to Target every time we get in the car. It’s hilarious. They love the cool double carts and getting to munch on their snack as we shop. I am not complaining, and I get compliments on their behavior every time. Excellent.

In the produce/bakery aisle, they spot the cookies. Fresh, huge, chocolate chip cookies. If pastries could talk, these cookies would be singing seductively and murmuring “eat me” to the tune of some sort of sexy, saxophone solo. At least that’s what I heard. Immediately, they break out into a chant of “cookie, cookie…” Loud… clear… hilarious… Those of you reading from far away probably could have heard them, had you listened carefully. Normally, I explain that it’s not cookie time and while I move the cart away from the dangerous shelf, I sing “Elmo’s song” to distract them. It tends to work. But my throat hurts and my voice is mostly gone. I don’t want to sing. Cookies it is! I opened the box, gave them each a cookie and closed it up so that I could pay for the box at checkout.  Two fantastically happy little toddlers munch on the cookies and giggle while I finish shopping.

When we got home, after a beautiful and cooperative trip, they asked for TV time. Normally, TV time is reserved for the afternoon post-nap. I’m not anti-TV or anything; I just think that it warrants the “in moderation” that is attributed to so many other elements of this modern world. Today… yup, you guessed it.  “Elmo or Thomas? “ We sat on the sofa, watched Sesame Street, played quietly and cuddled.

I made them their favorite lunch (Mac and Cheese) and we played quietly until naptime.

According to a checklist that could probably be found in some parenting magazine, I haven’t done very well today.

• My kids have not really played outside, despite it being a beautiful day.
• I haven’t really engaged them on the floor with their toy food and puzzles like I normally would.
• I have let them watch way too much TV.
• I forgot to cut them a veggie to go with their Mac and cheese, but was too lazy to get back up and do it.
• Oh, and I gave them cookies the size of their heads an hour after breakfast.

Bad mommy…

On the other hand, I have not had any tantrums to tame. Not a single request for a hug or kiss has been denied. While they have been somewhat sedate (probably because they don’t know what to do with the me that doesn’t run around and sing) but they have been very content. I have been brought a veritable buffet of plastic food to “taste” while I sat on my adult chair. We have all survived. Ahhhh….

Whatever I did to make that happen… for one day, is that so bad?

It's my birthday and I'll smile if I want to...

I think it’s interesting, watching people’s reactions to their birthday. Some think their birthday is a chance to party, taking the opportunity to get stupidly drunk, either in joy or search for oblivion. 

Others like a quiet day with friends or family, have a subdued get together and relax. Finally, some dread the day; ignore it as best possible hoping that nobody will notice. I think that a birthday is more than a personal holiday, it’s a reminder that another year of your life has passed, one that you can never get back. A person’s reaction to that realization is, in my humble opinion, an indication of how they feel about their current life status and what it means about who they are, right now.

It’s my birthday, and I have advanced one more year, putting me in my mid 30’s. Too old to go skydiving without being told I’m crazy and too young for a mid-life crisis. Old enough to be called ma’am in a supermarket but young enough that nobody looks surprised to see me with young kids. I guess that means I look my age. Funny, but that doesn’t bother me.

I like my life. I like that a “good night” is quite often a quiet night on the sofa, watching TV with my husband and the kids fast asleep. I like that I am old enough to have a certain level of wisdom but young enough to have sufficient energy to chase my kids. I like that that I have lived enough years, enjoyed enough success and survived enough sadness and pain to carry a calm strength. I may have lost a few battles, but the war is on my side.  No reason to believe the future will tip those scales.

Some people make New Year’s resolutions on January 1rst, but years ago I stole the idea of making New Year’s resolutions on my birthday. It felt more personal. This year, I have a few in mind.

This birthday, I feel lucky for what I am and what I have. I feel so fortunate for the health and happiness of my children, my husband and my extended family. I feel so fortunate for my wonderful friends, who are really the family you have the honor of choosing. I feel fortunate for the right to an average, peaceful and non-eventful day. Why would I want anything more?

To those of you reading this, THANK YOU for being part of this life that makes me feel so satisfied.

Each and every one of you.

What I Miss About My Life Before Children...

I love my kids. Beyond words or meaning. I would give anything to ensure their health and happiness and I can’t imagine the pain I would feel if they were taken away from me.  They are the blessing of my life.

However…. (Yeah, you knew that was coming.)

That DOES NOT mean that I don’t sometimes look back on my child free days and yearn for some of the basic, daily conveniences that I so lightly took for granted. What was I thinking?  Here are some examples.

1-      I miss going to the bathroom alone.

Ok, so I know that it’s good for kids to see adults going potty. It teaches them about what they will do someday. It’s also good for mommy to know that her kids are in sight and not out of sight killing each other or themselves. But… There are days that I don’t want to have to read a Thomas book to my kids while I pee. There are also days that I don’t feel the undying urge to play the potty game while I pee. (We have two kid sized potties in the bathroom. The kids like to sit on them and say “pee pee” and “poopies” gleefully, despite being fully dressed and in diapers.) Is that too much to ask? Clearly, yes.

2-      I miss emptying/loading the dishwasher in one single attempt, without interruption.

No, the dishwasher door, when opened, is not a seat. It is also not a train track. No, the knives are not for you to play with and the dirty dishes that are already inside are not meant to be touched, only for you to put your finger in your mouth or on the sofa. Yes, I know that your dirty plates with pictures of balloons, trains and robots are in there. We DO NOT have to take them out to look at them RIGHT NOW.

3-      I miss getting out the door quickly.

I have never been one of those women for whom “5 minutes” to get out the door really equated to some complicated equation of 5 x some random number. (Random number impacted by the destination of course. If the destination is a fancy one, the random number is larger than if the destination is the supermarket for example.) I have always been low maintenance (in that way) and got out the door promptly with little fuss. Now, there is no avoiding that complicated equation. You must account for: 1- Have they pooped yet this morning? If not, you are looking at a last minute change.  2- Are they dressed and can they go out in the clothing you dressed them in this morning? 3- Do they want to go out, i.e. are they going to cooperate with getting ready for the outdoors weather? 4- What season is it? Winter takes longer than summer, for example. Socks, jackets, and sweaters take FOREVER to get on young kids.  5- How many adults are there in relation to kids and are the additional adults the ones that help or hinder? More adults are not always beneficial to this complicated equation. 6- Last, but not least, are YOU dressed and has the mood of the previous hour allowed you to be ready to get out the door or not? 

4-      My wardrobe.

It’s not enough that your body is impacted by the pregnancy, but now you also have to think about what kind of clothing you can wear based on the age of your kids. Short skirts? No way!!! How are you going to sit on the floor? With twins, you can’ wear anything you can’t crouch in, that’s for sure. Shirts get tricky too. Anything too low cut doesn’t allow you to wrestle two kids into your arms without bordering on some kind of porn, so sexy is out of the question. If it has any possibility of riding up and showing your stomach, forget it. You might as well go out in a crop top and get it over with. Besides, you are just going to get it dirty and stained, so why spend the money in the first place. And those cute, sexy little shoes. Ahhhhh, how I long to wear you again. Mercifully, my feet expanded while I was pregnant, so at least it’s not really viable anyway. But seriously, you can’t chase two kids with those kinds of shoes. For a shoe fanatic like me, that’s not always easy to accept.

5-      Doing anything quickly.

Quick errand? Yeah, right. By the time you get the kids into the car, out of the car, run your “quick” errand, get them back into car and move on again… your 10 minute errand just became 45 minutes and it’s time for nap and snack. Drive throughs were most definitely invented by a woman. Probably a stay at home mom with multiple kids. Phone calls are no better. Totally content children suddenly need you DESPERATELY the moment you pick up the phone. There is no explanation for this, but my observational evidence is sound. I once had to call a doctor back (after a VERY LONG game of phone tag) because my kids would not stop hitting each other in the head with hard toys and my son decided to bite my daughter. “Thanks kids, that was good timing.”

6-      Functional thinking.

Wait, what was I about to say? Just kidding! I know that I have to function at a very high level all day, but sometimes I feel like the world’s biggest idiot. I have a write down everything I think, or I might as well not have thought it in the first place. The memory you have is based on the time to process a thought, and that luxury is long gone, at least for a few years. I can wrangle two kids, get dinner made and make sure the food shopping has been done, but wet laundry can sit for DAYS if the reminder to switch doesn’t catch my attention. If it’s not looking me in the face, fat chance.

As I write this, it’s naptime. Naptime is almost done and I won’t be alone much longer. It’s been nice chatting with you in my free time… I’m off to pee, wash some dishes and make a phone call while I still can. J

Accepting Them The Way They Are...

A few weeks ago we took the kids out to dinner, not an unusual occurrence. We eat in many family friendly restaurants with the kids. They are quite accustomed to the fact that they can’t run around the restaurant, tend to keep their volume to an acceptable level (for that sort of restaurant, of course) and eat most everything we give them. Unless we have an off day or plan extraordinarily badly, our odds of a pleasant meal are quite good.

As we were finishing up and leaving the restaurant, a family walked by us with a young boy, maybe 4 years old. The mother looked at us enviously and quietly commented on how well our children had behaved. “He’s not so good in restaurants” she shrugged heavily, indicating her son.

As I looked at her tired face, I recalled some great advice I was given a long time ago. If you see a child being great, you are only seeing one tiny part of their day. You didn’t see an hour earlier and you aren’t going to see an hour later. It’s out of context, and you have no idea what struggles that family encounters in a different setting.

 I smiled at this mom, smiled at her son and joked that we better have good dining experiences for all the sleep issues we deal with at home. Her shoulders dropped a mile, if not more, and she breathed out a sigh of relief. “You have sleep issues?” she asked. “Yeah” I replied. “I think my daughter has broken every sleep book.” She inquired, “When did she start sleeping through the night?”.  It was my turn to shrug. “Let’s hope she learns soon. So far, she doesn’t.”  Yes, my daughter is 2.5 years old. Turns out this little boy started sleeping all night at 6 months and hasn’t looked back.  We had returned to a level playing field again. The mom was beyond relieved.

I’ll clarify.  We do not get up to deal with my daughter every night. At this point, we mostly ignore her crying at night unless the daytime provided us some information to suggest she may be sick or have a special need on that particular occasion. This has not deterred her from waking us up, twice a night, most nights of her life. Occasionally we have a month or so where we get to sleep all night for multiple nights (YES!!!!) but it’s more likely that our nights of sleeping through are infrequent and non sequential. We hoped that ignoring would result in that behavior dying out. So far, it has not.  We live in hopes.

Naps were a bit more disastrous. For months of the first year and a half of their lives, I was practically housebound as a result of her not napping. If she didn’t nap, I wasn’t crazy enough to go out alone with two babies, her overtired self being one of them. If she did nap, it took her so long to fall asleep that by the time she woke up it was too late to get out of the house anyway. Did I handle this well? No, not really…  Lack of sleep and human contact does NOT suit my personality.  I have no doubt that I drove my husband crazy with the associated stress levels.

And I wasn’t kidding about her breaking the sleep books. I don’t know how many books, articles and websites I read about sleep training. “Cry it out” was attractive until it flat out failed. When the book say you have to wait for results, they didn’t mean that your child should be screaming 90 minutes, twice a day for 3 months. Time for plan B. And plan C. Oh, and plan D. We tried timed visits to the crib with varied plans of picking up vs. not picking up. We played with light in the room, temperature, number of animals in the crib. You name it, we tried it. I dare you to come up with a new theory. Actually, I Double dog dare you!  We were in constant research mode… without a hypothesis.

At first I would solicit the advice of fellow parents, but not a single piece of advice made a bit of difference. As this got more frustrating I stopped even asking. Recently one of my friends heard me mention sleep and asked if the problem had returned. I guess I just forgot that I had ceased to talk about it. It had not returned, it had continued.

I am writing about this today because, when you combine a long vacation and a somewhat erratic schedule on the return home, you get sleep schedule chaos. It’s worth it, to get away, but it’s not simple. Our naptime screaming had become a thing of the past and today my daughter took 45 minutes of screaming to finally give in to her fatigue. Finally, blessed silence.

Am I stressed out? Not really. A few months ago this would have had me on edge, grumpy as hell and ready to give my husband a detailed account when he got home. Not an overly welcome story, you can imagine. “Welcome home honey. Want to hear how my day stunk?”  Hmmm…..  Over the past few months, though, I have come to a certain peace with our little sleep demon, uh, I mean problem. I have come to accept that my daughter, just like every other person, is just a person. A spectacular person. She’s sweet and generous and loves to share her snacks with her friends and her brother. She’s smart, she’s naughty as hell and she loves to dance to every song she hears. She loves to play with her toys and gives the best hugs when she’s in the mood.  Oh, and she sleeps like crap.

When you put it that way, doesn’t sound so bad, does it?

Don’t we all just want our loved ones to accept us the way we are?  I know that I do.

Discipline, my friend... Welcome. Let's get started!!!!!

While parenting a child in the first few months of his/her life is BY FAR the hardest months in many ways, at least you don’t have discipline. I mean really, when’s the last time a 3 month old did something wrong on purpose?

They don’t sleep very long, granted, and they have an inane ability to know when your food is hot and on your plate. This is always the time when they scream, spit up, or poop through their clothing. Whatever.  Just as long as you don’t get to eat your food at the correct temperature. But… at least it’s not intentional.  Developmentally, they aren’t there yet. YET…

Bedtime at home has become, well… let’s just call it an event. We have a wonderful babysitter/part time nanny who I trust wholeheartedly with my kids. I have left them with her sick, knowing that they would get all the love they could possibly need. I have left them screaming in tantrum, because I know that she will do a great job calming them down. And if she’s not successful, then it probably wouldn’t have worked for me either. Oh well, they’ll survive. The one responsibility we do not give her is bedtime; we always leave after putting the kids down to bed. Why would we give her that job, on her own, when my husband and I work hard to avoid giving that job to each other alone? My kids are good, but bedtime is a high maintenance job when the ratio is 1:1, 1:2 is a nightmare for the experienced. At this point, we’d be setting her up for failure.

There was a point, a few months back, when I contemplated passing her the bedtime job. Then my son realized he was 2. I changed my mind.

Getting him ready for bed is a sweat inducing, heart pounding and highly frustrating episode. He finds nothing funnier than to make every step an ordeal, laughing hysterically and going totally boneless at the same time. Fun, fun, fun… The last few weeks he has gotten away from us and stood his ground on the other side of the room, feet planted firmly with a “how much is it worth to you?” expression on his tiny, little man face. Oy vay…Is this where it starts?  He clearly has no idea how much we look forward to the adult time or he might not be so confident.

We are pretty good about discipline in daily life and our methods have always been relatively conservative, but mostly successful. The kitchen table is one example. We were quite strict about table manners and we now have kids that can eat quite nicely and happily in most family friendly restaurants.

We tend to stay away from discipline at sleep associated times, however, if at all possible. Sleep has always been a “four letter word” and adding the stress of an unhappy, disciplined kid to the mix doesn’t seem too wise. Sadly, the other night, that possibility went away. Yuck…

I’ll give you the events in list form.

1-      My son plants himself in protest across the room, turns around and plays with a toy.

2-      I inform him that I am counting to 3. If I get to 3, he loses his bedtime books. (Strong words, right? He LOVES his books…)

3-      My son turns, with a “not a chance” look and keeps playing. (Uh oh…)

4-      I start to count, slowly and with purpose. He doesn’t budge.

5-      I get to 3. (Oh crap! Now I have to mess with bedtime)

6-      Husband takes sister into her room and reads her books while I wrestle my son into his pajamas. (Yes, wrestle is the right word. I’m not exaggerating. )

7-      Once pajamas are successfully applied, I pick up my son, kiss him, tell him I love him and put him in his crib. (expectant pause)

8-      His face EXPLODES. Once again, not exaggerating. Ahhhhh…. Clearly he didn’t think I would follow through. He asks for books, I tell him no. I explain, again, why he lost his books and tell him I hope tomorrow will be different.

9-      I leave to furious screaming.

About 5 minutes later, I look on our video monitor and don’t see him. Oh double crap! He has thrown himself out of the crib, along with all his toys. I rush upstairs and find him pacing the room furiously. Hamper is overturned and upon seeing me, he gives me one of the angriest and most incredulous looks I have ever seen on his face. I am proud to say I didn’t laugh, or even break a smile (until later when I told my husband about the whole scene, of course). I cleaned up the evidence and rocked him to calm. I reminded him how much I love him, kissed him and put him back in bed. Then I FIRMLY told him it was bedtime and he was to stay in the crib and go to sleep.

Thank goodness he listened. Clearly he had no idea that I had no follow up plan. I’m working on that one right now. J

The Real Joys of the Toddler Years

One of the most endearing traits of toddlers is the Jekyll/ Hyde phenomenon that occurs, oh, every 10 seconds. Just when you think the morning is going great, the switch flips and you have two hellions on your hands. And then, just when you think you have to turn around and go home, the switch flips again and your angels have returned. What the hell? It’s like being on a rollercoaster.

Personally, I survive this crazy ride because of the moments of sweetness. There is a sweetness to young toddlers that cannot be duplicated (duplicated, duplicated, duplicated… ), nor can it be bottled. From an evolutionary point of view, this is very handy. Without this sweetness, they would not survive to adulthood. At least mine wouldn’t.

I began reading a friend’s blog recently (http://www.pamaramadingdong.com/). She has inspired me in many ways. I find her blog to be hilarious, insightful, and so dead on for my life. I highly suggest you read her blog too.

In one of her entries, she talks about kid speak and how she refrained from correcting many of the errors her children made because she found them to be evidence of their childhood, and she didn’t want to hurry that childhood away. I thought it was genius. And she got me thinking… what do I love about my children at this age?

1-      I love that most “ouchies” (boo boo’s for most people) can be fixed with a kiss from Mommy, Daddy or another trusted adult. I’m not sure what the medical profession would have to say about this, but I have observational evidence and I’m sticking to my theory.

2-      I love the way their little toes wiggle when they get really excited about something, and I love that those toes are still so pudgy. There’s time to slim down. Right now, pudgy toes are totally delicious.

3-      I love that they adore the sound of my coffee maker’s grinder in the morning and insist upon helping me count the scoops of beans that go in. Woo hoo, entertainment for free! How long will that one last?

4-      I love that they both have a precious pooh bear that must go up to the crib with them every night and come down every morning. Luckily, they were bought from two different stores so their colors are slightly different, so telling them apart is effortless. I also love that they are constantly bringing the other their bear, so that they can play with them together.

5-      I love that they demand control over the smallest of daily choices. Blanket on or off at bedtime? Milk or water with lunch? This book or that book?  And I love that most of the time I can limit the choices to both being acceptable to me. 2 points for mom!

6-      I love the way their tiny faces collapse when tragedy strikes (i.e. they can’t have the toy they want right now, or something of the like). The mouth opens and for a moment no sound escapes. Then, a low moan of sadness erupts, accompanied by a foot stomping and hand clenching. The face goes tomato red and huge crocodile tears start to fall. I shouldn’t laugh, and most of the time I keep a straight face, but the severity of reaction is beyond funny to me. Really? Oh kid… wait a year or two. You’ll get a new perspective. Trust me.

7-      I love their mischief smiles when they are about to do something they are not supposed to do, know they are not supposed to do it, and I have just spotted them preparing  to do it anyways. It’s that “oh hi mom. What? Wait… you think I was going to climb on the lego table to get to the top of the shelf and pull all the puzzles down? No way… come on… why would I do that?” look. It’s often followed by a dramatic run into my arms for an “I love you” hug, with the sincere hopes that a blessed embrace will suddenly erase my short term memory. Go, manipulation, go… you’re starting early! (Don’t professionals say that this is evidence of intelligent and creative thinking in later life?  )

8-      I love their funky pronunciation of words like helicopter.  “opper opper” is sort of what you hear. The fact that they both love helicopters so much, so they practically shout this word with glee makes it even more glorious. Banana is equally adorable. Despite the fact that they can say 3 syllable words and can say the “ba” sound, they cannot say banana. They have always said “nana” instead. I think it’s because they couldn’t say it properly when they began their love affair with the golden fruit and it has kept its original name for sentimental reasons.

9-      And finally, I love that each of my children has a ticklish spot that makes them laugh so hard you might think they would explode with laughter. It’s a belly laugh that, when I hear it, I can’t help but laugh also. I lose all control. Sometimes, when we are having the beginnings of an off morning, I tickle them just to get them to laugh that way. It bring my mood straight back up and gives me the patience to handle my lovely and temperamental children with grace and maturity.

What do you love most about your kids, right now?

Happy Father's Day!

It’s Father’s day. The day to celebrate fathers, dads, daddies… you know. Those guys who hang out with us and help up parent those kids we love beyond words. So, the question I think about today is the following:  “What makes a great dad?”

My dad could solve any problem, and I really do mean any problem, as long as the solution was logistical. (My mom was the pro on the emotional problems, no offense dad.) If I had to be in 4 places at one time and couldn’t get out of more than one commitment, my dad was the guy to talk to. Within 5 minutes, he had a schedule, reservations and a flight plan. Excellent!

My kids are too young to ask, but if they could answer, they would probably say that dads are the people who cuddle you in the porch swing and teach you how to whistle. (Yes, he is in the beginning stages of teaching them. He whistles and they try unsuccessfully to copy. It’s quite a scene! J  )  They also build awesome train tracks and Lego towers. Talk about high skilled multi-tasking.

Recently, we got chatting with a family at a play area. There was the dad, the mom and a very cute 3 year old girl who happily assisted my twins in the magic act of the disappearing snack. It was adorable. Apparently, they were expecting a second. He was thrilled, she was terrified. (One was hard enough. How would she manage two?) At one point, when the little girl had run off and the mom chased her, I got to talking to the dad and he mentioned that he wasn’t the little girl’s “real dad”, quickly correcting himself with “biological father”. 

How sad that he had felt the need to explain this. Over the course of approximately 30 minutes, I had watched this man play with, chase, laugh with, pick up and kiss this little girl. I saw the look in her eyes when she gazed at him adoringly. Not her real dad? I don’t think so.  If anyone was a father/daughter pair, it was them.  As we continued talking, I learned that he had known her mom since she was an infant and he proudly announced to me. “I taught her how to walk.” Not her real dad?  Seriously? I disagree.

So, I return to the original question… what makes a great dad?

Want to hear my opinion? Of course you do. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be reading. Right? Here it comes…

I think a great dad is a man who changes diapers, even the really stinky ones at inconvenient times. A great dad is a man that takes his turn on the fatiguing and never ending night wake ups of young children. A great dad knows how to make his kids stop crying and also knows that they need to hear the word NO. A great dad treats his partner with love and respect, modeling for his kid(s) that a real man nurtures those he loves. A great dad knows how to take the kids, all by himself, for the entire morning (without waking up his wife) because she just spent the night in the emergency room and desperately needs the sleep. (Thanks honey. That one is directed at you!)

My husband is a great dad. When he gets home from work, he is greeted with a chorus of “daddy!!!!” by two ecstatic kids. I LOVE that. There are no words to describe the level to which I love that.

So, on this Father’s day, I would like to thank all you fathers out there who merit the praise that I lavish upon my husband and my father.  You are loved and you are appreciated. Every single day. 

Purring.....

When life gets really busy, we are forced to let go of something and rearrange our priorities to make it all fit.  For me, one of the activities that gets eliminated is reading. This is tragic, as I love to read. Books, for me, are like music. There are many different kinds and they each serve their own purpose. You know, you don’t have a dance party to Mozart.

There are highly intellectual books that are wonderful for expanding vocabulary and introducing your brain to really deep analytical thinking. Terrible for when you are exhausted, though. There are fun/trashy novels, with really racy romance and stupidly formulaic plots. While these are certainly not winning any awards, they are a hell of a lot of fun to read on a beach or on a summer evening with a beer/glass of wine/piña colada. There are those books that are designed to be informative, but are laced with humor. I read a lot of those around the time the kids were born and I found them to be much informative than the textbooky ones written by “real” experts.

And then, there is “Chicken soup for the Soul.” There is a soft, cheesy part of my soul that loves these books. For those of you that don’t know, “Chicken Soup for the Soul” is a series of books that contain multiple vignettes, written by different authors. They are totally emotional and insanely sappy. If you are ready for a good cry but can’t quite arrange an exit for the tears, this is the book for you. Waterworks in no time.  

A while back, I read one about a little girl and her cat. The cat, a black cat, was named “Blackie” of course and he had a purr that vibrated his whole body. He would lie down and look at his owners with eyes that were just begging for a rub and when they conceded to his wishes he would bring on the rumbling and purring in sheer delight. The story was written by the dad and he quoted his daughter as saying, “Daddy, Blackie wants to be purred”. The moral of this short vignette was that everyone wanted to be purred, and that truly taking care of someone is about figuring out how to accomplish that goal and do it as often as possible. I loved it.

And I agree, wholeheartedly so. I love it that when we sit on the sofa in the evening, too tired to think (much less talk) my husband will absentmindedly tickle my leg while he checks his email and reads up on world events. It “purrs” me. Ironically, he tends to tickle my right leg when we are in the car and now my daughter grabs my hand, puts it on her leg and commands “mommy tickle leg”. When I comply, a contented smile covers her face. She loves it too. My son has his “mommy movie seat” and simply adores sitting in my lap a very specific way when we watch our afternoon DVD. Now that he’s older and more active, he doesn’t always want to sit in my lap, but if he wants to sit it must be that way with no variation tolerated. He must be able to put his cheek against mine. I love it. Who cares that I can’t get anything done? This is really essential cuddle time! Besides, he used to sit that way every time, so I’m taking it when I can get it.

What really astounds me about this whole “purring thing” is that the action that purrs us is often quite simple, is rarely expensive and could most likely be incorporated into the busy daily routine if we just made a point of not letting it escape. So why DO we let it escape? Especially us moms. We spend so much time taking care of our kids, the house, the meals… do we make time for ourselves to, oh, read a book? Of course not. We are too busy being functional, trying to keep up. And our kids see it, every time and every day. They internalize it.

 If we really want to teach our children how to be good, attentive people who care for others and themselves, then don’t we have to practice what we preach? Because, really, they aren’t listening what we say. They are watching what we do.

Control Freaks United!

I would love to tell you that I am great at giving up control of the details that surround daily life at home with the kids. I would love to tell you that I eagerly and happily let my husband do whatever he wants with the kids (after all, they are his kids too) and never question his methods.

But I would be lying.

As a younger person I was not entirely a control freak, at least not in the traditional way. I was adamant that someone, someone capable, be in control although it didn’t have to be me. If it wasn’t my domain of power, I would happily hand the baton to another who was more deserving. In some ways, (at work, for example) I am still like that. In other ways, well… not so much.

When it comes to my home, my kids, my routine… I am a control freak. I confess!!! Why? Because I am terrified of the pieces I will have to pick up if I let too much go. My husband is much more relaxed about, well, almost everything. This is one of the reasons we are such a good pair. If it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t have a pension and if it weren’t for me, we wouldn’t have the social network we enjoy. He loves order and l thrive on a certain level of chaos. We are the best thing that ever could have happened to each other.

That does not mean, however, that his relaxed attitude towards daily life doesn’t drive me crazy. I am constantly wondering how he can NOT see that breaking the routine will make my life monumentally harder on Monday morning and he is constantly pondering my anal retentive rules and rituals that govern our daily lives.

Sound familiar? I’m guessing yes…

Ironically, I am not a control freak when it comes to our part time nanny. This past semester I worked a significant number of hours and I didn’t micro manage her at all. (at least I don’t think I did). I know that she does things her own way and it doesn’t bother me at all. I have two possible theories to explain this phenomenon.

1-      As the boss, I have had the luxury of being very clear about my overall agenda and she (the children not being her kids) doesn’t feel the need to alter that agenda. She understands that the parents of children have the right to their views on the raising of their child and follows the guidelines beautifully. I only have to ask/say something one time and it’s done. I LOVE THIS!

2-      She and I are very alike in personality and overall functioning in life. We are both very independent spirits. We don’t mind being given instructions, but we both HATE being micro managed. We don’t mind being told to do something a specific way, but we appreciate being told why. Simple, right? This allows us to get along very well, as people and friends in addition to our professional relationship. It also means that she often understands my logic, making it easier to follow without annoyance or resentment. She once told me that my rules, while there are many of them, aren’t random. They are all connected to a process that has been extensively tested. If I don’t want something done a certain way, it’s because I have tried it that way and the end result was a disaster. I love that she gives me the benefit of the doubt that way.

I woke up one morning this week with an ankle that wasn’t quite right, but I ignored it. After all, I had a day to start. By naptime it was more uncomfortable. By bedtime I couldn’t walk on it. Crap! I don’t have time for this. By 11pm I was on my way to the ER with a friend visiting from out of town and 5 hours later we came home with my leg in an air cast, crutches and no diagnosis for the pain. The next day I still couldn’t walk on it. Arghhh. Did I mention that I don’t have time for this?

My issue with this is very non bratty. I’m not thinking “poor me”. Actually, when I was at the ER, I could see the room across from where I was treated and the little I saw didn’t look good. My guess is that someone is going to be planning a funeral very soon, based on the quiet and concerned faces that exited the room. Either that or surgery and a LONG recovery. How so very sad, and useful for putting my silly injury into proper perspective.  

I do, however, have an issue with the fact that not being able to walk takes away my potential to care for my kids. Yuck. Double yuck. And… it puts me in a position that I find highly uncomfortable. I need to sit back and let my husband run the show while I am there to observe. I’m not sure this is a natural occurrence.  I know that he does it his way when I’m away, and that’s fine. But while I’m watching? I can’t even step in, literally. I can’t walk over and intervene. Perhaps this is for the best, because if I could I would probably intervene too often and question his authority. Not nice, I know, but hard to avoid.

Maybe there’s some sort of fate mixed up in this situation? I know that my husband has been getting more irritated at me lately, wanting me to back off a bit. Ironically, now I have no choice. Maybe I’ll use this as an excuse to take my first “steps” and meet him half way. Wish me luck!

Addicted to Blogging

Moderation, they say, is the key to enjoyment. Hmmm…. I wonder what “they” would say about my growing addiction to blogging. Because, let’s be honest, I am getting a bit addicted.

When I was young, I wrote all the time. I wrote poems, stories, you name it. I’m not sure if I had an opinion on the quality of that work, but my mom thought it was great. Totally unbiased view, of course. She even got a few of my poems calligraphied and framed. I wonder if she still has it since they downsized a few years back?

Then the real school years hit and once I got to college, I was writing so many papers that sitting down at the computer one more time became less of a priority. There were a few noteworthy times during those years when my pen hit the paper, but few and far between. Most of the time, my writing was academic only.

Then I got a real job, got married, had kids… and the writing stopped. Life just got too busy and my priorities changed. Ironically, that time would have been a perfect time to write. The continuous life changes brought on a myriad of emotions that would have been wonderful to write about, both for therapeutic and reflective reasons. Oh well…

Then, a few months ago, I met up with a friend for lunch. I had the kids with me and she had her new little girl with her. My kids played while we chatted and then we got some lunch. Towards the end of lunch, my friend asked me a pointed question, about how I was doing and what I had been doing and it hit me. All that time, I had only talked about the kids. When it came to me, I had nothing to say. What could I say? All day, every day, all I did was take care of the kids. I made meals, cleaned up messes, drove to play dates and stores, sang songs, read books and mediated battles over plastic toys that hardly seemed worth the effort. I changed diapers and gave hugs and kisses. While all these activities may be essential to the growth and development of my children, and even enjoyable to me at the moment they are occurring, enthralling adult conversation they do not make. I was teaching part time, but the teaching wasn’t getting as much emotional energy as the parenting, despite the hours of work I was putting for lesson planning and grading.

In the process of creating and raising my children, I was losing myself. This was not good.

This isn’t really a problem that you fix, at least not quickly. It’s not like the solution is on sale at Target for the low price of $19.99. Hey, if it were sold at Target I would have seen it already. I spend enough time there. It did get me thinking, though, and I have made it a goal to not lose sight of that revelation.

Maybe that’s why I have started writing again? To find myself, the lost woman in the mom’s body. And you know what? I think it may be working because since I started writing again, I find myself more interesting. I find that I think with a more expressive vocabulary. That can’t hurt the kids, can it? Especially if I use the words out loud.  It’s like my mind was lost at sea and the writing is serving as a locator beacon.

One unforeseen bonus is that I find myself observing some of the irritating and hilarious situations that come up on a daily basis with an eye for detail that will allow me to write about it later. (They do say to write about what you know, after all.) I never realized that it’s almost impossible to observe effectively and freak out at the same time. Bonus!

Maybe I’ll keep writing, see what happens.

Raising Color Blind Children

In a past life, I was middle school teacher in a private school. Throughout the year, there were various convocations, all school events, where the entire school joined together in the gym to commemorate an important date or event. Martin Luther King’s birthday was one such event.

I, for one, was not a huge fan of this convocation. Let me explain. It’s not that I am against equal rights. Quite the opposite, actually. I enjoy the fact that my local area provides me access to many interesting and intelligent people with many different skin colors, ethnicities, religions and nationalities. I recently found my children in a tunnel, in a children’s play area, packed in with a few new friends. Not one of these new friends had the same color skin as my kids or as each other. I was overjoyed.

My objection to these convocations was that we have all heard these words before. While they remain powerful and true, I wouldn’t mind a new angle in our ever changing world.

Which is what I found when I started to phase out and look around at the students.

Below me, on the ground, a 2^nd grade class was sitting in row. Approximately 20 students, in the same school uniform and equally bored by the speech that was clearly not directed at them.  Among those students, two little girls stood out, because they were misbehaving badly enough to receive constant reprimand from their teacher. Did they care? Absolutely not. They were way too busy playing with each other’s hair, tickling each other’s legs and making funny faces at each other until the other one giggled out loud. They were cruisin’ for a bruisin’ and the teacher was not pleased. Normally, frisky kids don’t provoke intellectual thought but this time it did. Why? One little girl was white and the other was black, and I would bet my life that were the very best of friends, in deep platonic love. They were unwittingly demonstrating the very content of the speech, but in a significantly more creative and interesting way. I understood, again. Thank you, girls, for that accidental life lesson.

Today at the playground, my daughter (cute little white girl) became enchanted with a little boy younger than her and finally found the coordination and confidence to go up and hold his hand. I had been chatting with his father, a very nice man who had a camera on hand and got photo evidence of the adorable scene. Did she care that he was black? No. Not only did she not care, I don’t think she noticed. If she had the vocabulary to articulate such observations, I would have asked her to describe him, just to verify my theory. Would she have mentioned that he was black, or would she have simply described his age, height, t-shirt color, favorite activity on the playground, etc? Would his race have been a relevant detail to her? I wonder…

Are we, in fact, raising kids that are culturally color blind? When my children’s generation sees a person of racial difference is that difference noteworthy or is it as irrelevant as eye color?

I can’t wait to ask them.

My kids are driving me crazy!

It’s Sunday morning, the kids are going to the gym with daddy. They will play in the child watch while he works out. I, alone at home, am doing the chores that can’t be done with them at home. I am cleaning up their rooms, putting away their clothing, etc. I don’t love doing these chores, but I do love having them done. Oh, and I LOVE the time alone in the house.

We got back from a vacation a week ago and the past week was, uhm, interesting. My son has been drooling nonstop, which likely indicates a coming tooth, but he won’t let me into his mouth to check. I tried the other day and he bit me. Ouch! I couldn’t punish him, though. I was the moron who stuck my fingers into a toddler’s mouth full of teeth, uninvited. Go me. I’ll omit this life detail when I apply for any award attached to basic, human intelligence.  My daughter has been throwing monumental tantrums that last longer than ever before. I feel like someone with a video camera needs to come to my house for footage and use it for a commercial. “Calgon, take me away” …”At times this like, I take Excedrin.”

My husband has been working on a million necessary house projects, which takes him out of the co-parenting role that usually saves me on weekends. I don’t blame him, of course. He is working just as hard as I am on these house projects and I have unlimited respect and admiration for how he takes care of our house upkeep. It’s just that I depend on the weekend for co-parenting to refuel my patience tank. It’s a little low by Friday in general and this particular Friday I was driving on empty. Gas station emergency!

This particular Sunday, my son had been sulking. Yes, he’s only 2 and he’s sulking already. At 7:30 in the morning. God help us when he’s 15 and has better vocabulary. I was trying to make my contribution to breakfast and attempt to make a hot pot of coffee. My son, however, was attempting re-entry. Yes, re-entry. This is where he stands behind me, wraps his little arms around my thighs and sticks his head up “where the sun don’t shine.”  It’s awesome, let me tell you. It’s even better when his nose is really snotty and he shakes his head ferociously back and forth, rubbing his nose on me so it looks like I peed in my pants. “Great, thanks honey. “

You might say, “But you just woke up. It just started. Why are you so impatient?” Why? I’ll tell you why. It didn’t start this morning. It started Monday morning and has been going non-stop for 6 days. I can’t walk, can’t catch his sister before she smears her lunch hands on the sofa, can’t get a drink of water, and can’t do anything because my son is attempting re-entry. All day, every day. I like to cuddle by nature and, unrestricted by the complicated logistics of having twins, I would happily carry my kids around more than I should.  But come on… sometimes a mom needs to pee.

If I step back and behave like the adult I am supposed to be, I can acknowledge that this is a normal toddler behavior. It’s not a sign of developmental delays, nor is it a sign of major illness. It’s highly unlikely he will still be doing this when he’s 10. (Please no… ) However, in my non patient adult state, THIS DRIVES ME INSANE.  I can’t describe the annoyance I feel when all my shorts are stained with snot and I don’t have an arm to pour my water, all day. Naptime cannot come soon enough.

Right now, the house is quiet. My husband has just left and I need to get on with doing those chores that really need attention. Maybe I’ll turn on some really good 80’s music and dance while I organize clothes. “Calgon, take me away!!!!”

Caught in the rain!

It rained today, and wow did it rain. Huge raindrops that actually made a sound upon impact. And the rain came of our nowhere, despite the ominous sky that had been lurking most of the morning. One second we were all dry and the next moment we were getting soaked.

I had the good fortune of being smack dab in the middle of unloading two kids and a basketful of groceries when the skies opened. A lovely gentleman asked me if I needed help but I laughed and told him I wasn’t melting anytime soon. He smiled, wished me a good day and moved on. Nice man. J  I hope someone does something very nice for him today.

Ever since the kids were beyond the really tiny infant stage, where you really do have to protect them from the elements, I have been on a mission to weather proof my kids. I don’t want to have “those kids” who can’t play in the rain, who won’t wear a dirty shirt, who can’t handle a little heat or a little cold. I don’t judge the parents who do have those kids, I feel bad for them. That must be a pain to deal with everyday; however the kid came by it. I would like to avoid it if at all possible.

So, as the rain got us all wet, I sang the “Mr. Sun” song. (Oh Mr. Sun, sun, Mr. Golden sun. Please shine down on me…) Check out a Raffi CD if you want the tune, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. It will be stuck in your head for days. It’s one of THOSE tunes.) The kids sang in the words they know and basically acted unphased by the sudden dumping of water from the sky. Once I had them inside, I moved the bags and got into the car. I was pretty darn wet. It felt great.

All morning the air had been very heavy and humid, on the brink of uncomfortable. The rain was gorgeously cold and it felt great on my skin. I laughed out loud about how funny rainstorms are and my kids kept repeating “funny rainstorms” with big dimple grins. YES!!!! My plan to create the weatherproof kids seems to be working.

I was reminded of May 2008. No, I don’t have a good memory. There’s a reason I remember the month and year. My husband and I were in the waiting time when you don’t know if you are pregnant or not and it was not the most relaxing time, to put it mildly. We were cautiously optimistic but a noticeable tension existed in day to day life. A friend invited me to go strawberry picking, and we agreed to meet at the farm as it was located between our two houses. On the way there, it started to rain. By the time I got to the farm’s parking lot, it was a downpour, so we agreed to hit a Dunkin’ Donuts and wait out the weather, hope for the best. Approximately 30 minutes later, the rain had stopped so we returned to the farm. The weather had chased away any possible crowds so there was a ton of room to move. The earth smelled great, freshly washed soil. What a wonderful aroma. We chatted while we picked strawberries, relaxing and enjoying the moment. Then it started to rain again and suddenly it hit me, this feeling of peace. It’s hard to explain, sort of like a calm rush (can a rush really be calm?) traveled from my head to my toes and my head got a little dizzy. I looked up at the sky, allowed the rain to pour down my face. For the first time in ages, I felt really and truly at peace. If you could bottle that feeling, you would be a billionaire or have the Nobel Prize, no doubt.

 A few weeks later, we got the good news. Maybe I knew?

In honor of that memorable day, I took the kids out for a short walk when we got home from the grocery store. My husband teased us that it might rain, but I didn’t care. We focused primarily on finding any and every mud puddle and we jumped in them all. Both kids stomped their little sandaled feet in total and utter glee, splashing muddy water everywhere. My son even sat in one and had to be stripped at the front door when we got home. Fantastic!! I couldn’t have planned it better if I tried.

I think that I need to get caught in the rain more often, remind myself to chill out and enjoy the moment.

Balance

If you are anything like me, you wake up and hit the ground running. Leisurely showers in the morning? Hell, no. Thing of the past. I’m lucky to get a morning shower at all. I have better odds on showering the night before.  Coffee gets made in stages, yes stages, despite the fact that completing the task without interruption would only take 2 minutes. I don’t have those 2 minutes, at least not all at one time. There’s at least on squabble to referee in that time. The minute to minute life of a mom is like that, it’s what they don’t tell you before you have kids. Your time is no longer yours, but neither is your heart.

I am constantly in pursuit of being a healthier person but the “easiest” ways to be healthy don’t seem all that easy to me. I could drink more water, but when would I have time to pee? Have YOU ever tried to fit a double stroller in a public bathroom stall? Trust me, it doesn’t fit. I’ve tried.

Ask any busy person and they will agree, balance in life is a concept that could not be adequately addressed in a thesis. It’s simply too complicated. As a single adult it was complicated. Then you add a partner and children and it seems impossible. When is there time for self improvement when you don’t even have time to think about the basics? Just keeping up with the laundry is daunting.

Quite some time ago I read an article that was meant to assist moms in making choices when it came to their children. When to give in? When to stand your ground? What to do when the answer falls somewhere between? The advice in this article was, in my humble opinion, evidence of pure genius. It was simple, clear and nonjudgmental. Perfection. The author recommended asking yourself the following questions when you find yourself in one of those moments. (My sincere apologies to the genius addressed in the previous sentence. If I could find the article and give you credit, I would)

1-      Does your child doing/not doing this particular action compromise some larger and essential value of your family and its moral system? Is it dangerous?

2-      Is this behavior a symptom of a current issue that is short lived or will giving in send your child the message to repeat his or her actions, creating an unhealthy pattern?

Simple, really, right?  If you answer these questions honestly for yourself, you will rarely go wrong.

My children have always been good eaters, and we have been fortunate to avoid the stressful food battles that so many can’t ignore. (Sleep, however, did not pass us by. That’s a daily issue that appeared early and have never gone away, sadly) But let’s get back to the topic at hand. I haven’t made them a separate dinner more than once a month since they were a year old and we rarely have to argue with them to sit at the table.  They sit, eat the majority of their food and their table manners aren’t too shabby. (Ok, I confess, we worked hard on the table manners because it was important to us, but doing the “right things” had the result we wanted.) Most of the food that gets cleaned off the floor was dropped in good faith and/or due to immature clumsiness or acceptable distraction. I have few complaints.

The last few days I had been a little under the weather, with a minor cold and a slightly sore throat.  Nothing serious, but enough to be a bit uncomfortable. The kids have been a little out of sorts as well, a bit needier than usual. I imagine they might feel a bit like I do, poor kiddos. The other night they weren’t eating very well, despite our reminders and requests. Suddenly, from behind a full plate of uneaten dinner, my daughter put on her cutest and most cunning smile and practically purred “Ice cream, please”. Very professional delivery. Direct eye contact, prompt use of the word please, no whining. Wow, well done kiddo. Part of me was thrilled at her capacity to plan the request so artfully and the other part of me was terrified at how well she did on such short notice. What will she do when she’s a teenager? No, wait, stop…  I’m not ready to think about that. Let’s move on…

I gave her the benefit of the doubt, assumed that she wanted it to soothe her aching throat, and gave them both ice cream. The giggles and smiles were beyond spectacular as two little toddlers dug into kid sized ice cream cups with vigor. Chocolate dripped everywhere and they even used their fingers to wipe out the remaining ice cream from the cup when it was too liquidy to eat with the spoon. Wipe with the fingers, lick the fingers, wipe with the fingers, lick the fingers… giggle and repeat.

I have not had a problem since, plates are cleaned like usual. Precisely what I predicted. Whoever said that a child who hasn’t cleaned the plate should NEVER get ice cream never had 2 year old twins. Trust me.