Confession

The noisy boys got some really cool new puzzles for their birthday. One is a big map of the United States, and the other is a big map of the world. So, this afternoon while their baby brother was napping, we got out the U.S. map and tried to put it together. "Tried" being the key word in that sentence. Everything was going along fine as we went around the edge, matching up the happy fish pictures. Then we got to the middle section.

"What state is this, Mom? Where does it go?"

Um, let's see. Where DOES that go? I spent most of the afternoon staring at this little picture of the U.S. on the box, trying to match up the states and get this puzzle together. And a big part of the problem is the fact that I cheated in geography. (Math too, but that's another post...) I wrote all of those little states in order on my arm and copied them onto the test. The whole cheating process probably took longer than actually LEARNING the states in the first place. I never did get caught. But here I am today, a college educated woman, and I don't know where all of the states in a children's puzzle go. (Even worse, where the actual states are in relationship to the other states!) So, now you've got a good illustration as you warn your kids against cheating. "Let me tell you about the Llama Momma..." Of course, it's never too late to learn.

Please don't hold it against me, dear blog reading friends!

expectations

I have a love-hate relationship with my crockpot. When I’m making chili or soup, my crockpot is my friend. When I come home to a pot of chili, I’m in love. Suddenly, I want to make everything in my crockpot! So I search for new recipes and I try them…and…well, they never live up to my expectations.

When my husband and I were dating we read this book, “Too Close, Too Soon,” by Jim Tally and Bobbi Reed. It’s a great book and was a real help to us in managing our courtship. (Actually, I think my husband—then boyfriend—managed it. Remember the “Tallygraph” honey? Don’t you wish we still HAD time alone together? ☺ ) Anyway, one of the basic premises of the book was this: “unrealistic expectations can destroy the natural progression of a relationship.”

And that’s exactly the way it is between me and my crockpot. Yesterday I tried to cook a chicken in it, excited because I had a new recipe promising me a deli-like roasted chicken. Just crumple up foil in the bottom of the crockpot, rub your bird with olive oil, sprinkle with seasoned salt and let it cook on high for 4-5 hours. Sounds easy enough, right? That should have been my first clue. My second clue? I hate chicken cooked in a crockpot. The flavor is always bland and the texture is, well, it’s “crockpot-like.”

I think it was the crumpled up bits of foil that threw me for a loop. Why would someone go to the trouble of publishing a recipe that specified CRUMPLED UP FOIL if it didn’t make a difference? It’s all about expectations.

Christmas Pride

Ever since their arrival, my children are s-l-o-w-l-y teaching me humility. Or maybe I’m just a slow learner, I don’t know. But the lessons keep coming.

The week before Christmas, the noisy boys had a holiday sing-a-long at their preschool. They keep the whole thing fairly low-key since the kids are so jazzed up over Christmas already, but still, it’s a chance to show off their friends and their school to Mom and Dad. The noisy boys get pretty excited about it.

On the day of the sing-a-long, the boys came down the stairs, dressed and ready to go—Twin A was wearing faded navy blue pull-on pants and a slightly different color blue play shirt. Twin B had his favorite hand-me-down baggy blue sweatpants (aka: cozy pants) on and a striped play shirt. I kept my expression neutral and mentioned that maybe they’d like to dress up today, since it’s a special day.

“How about your new sweater vest and button up shirt outfits that you wore to church last week? The ones with the cozy corduroy pants? You both looked so handsome in those. I’ll bet your teacher would like to see those nice outfits.” I asked, hoping to convince at least one of them.
“No. I like this outfit.” Twin A responded.
“Yeah. Me too.” Agreed Twin B.
“Don’t you want to wear something just a little bit fancier?” I tried again.
“But I AM fancy,” exclaimed Twin B, “this is a VERY fancy shirt!”

So I gave up, and off we went to the sing-a-long. I should back up here and say that all summer long I really encouraged them to be independent (after all, we had another baby on the way). They are responsible for making their beds (however it turns out is just the way we like it), getting themselves dressed, and putting their dirty clothes in the hamper. At five, you don’t get to make a ton of decisions, and I believe that unless you’re on your way to a wedding, what you wear should be one of them. Fortunately, when you’re five, the general public gives you plenty of fashion grace.

Anyway, back to the program. There we were, sitting in a semi-circle with the other parents, while the noisy boys proudly sang “S-A-N-T-A” to the tune of BINGO. They were cute in a ragamuffin kind of way. Meanwhile, most of their classmates were wearing Christmas sweaters and red velvet dresses, and there, right in the middle of them, were my boys in their grungy play clothes. It was a proud moment, let me tell you.

They didn’t seem to mind being under dressed, and their preschool teacher had a good laugh with me. I keep assuring her that we DO own nice clothes, even though they keep showing up in the same grungy sweatpants every day. Thankfully, she’s also a believer in letting kids learn by doing. At least someone is on my side! ☺

Stranger than Fiction

After a thrilling afternoon of playing Whac-a-Mole and building a highly unstable tinker toy lighthouse with the noisy boys, I really needed to get out of the house tonight. So I called a friend, and off we went to the movie theater. Not the big, flashy one a mile from my house, but the $3 theater on the other side of town. I love it there. Free refills on slushees and popcorn, plus a mint when you leave. And if you go as infrequently as I do, it doesn’t really matter how long the movie has been out, or even which movie you see, as long as it doesn’t have the word “flush” in the title, it’s all good.

Stranger than Fiction is, well, strange. I had heard from several people that this was a pretty good movie, so I suppose my expectations were slightly out of line. I was expecting GREAT, maybe even FUNNY, and while it had its great and humorous moments, as a whole I would not describe it as either.

And what’s with the whole “writer as misfit” thing? Does that get on anyone else’s nerves? Why does the writer character always have to be a maladjusted, quite possibly suicidal, chain smoking alcoholic in a crisp white shirt? Why not a middle-aged, slightly overweight stay-at-home Mom who scribbles down stories on napkins at McDonalds while her children play? And, of course, these crisp-white-shirt writers would never publish said stories in some obscure journal that nobody reads in exchange for a few copies; no, it’s always a big, fancy publishing house. Or even better—the writer is rich and lives in a beautiful mountain cabin, writing the day away. She never has to do laundry or fix supper; it’s brought to her on a silver tray, presumably purchased with the vast sums of money she’s made on her first novel. Right.

The popcorn was good, the company stellar, and I don’t have to put anyone to bed except myself. And I’m complaining about…what exactly?

travel advice needed

My husband and I will celebrate our 10th anniversary in April and plan to take a trip, just the two of us. The only question is: where to go? I vote for Paris. My husband wants to go to Washington D.C. I am not making this up. In his defense, he travels constantly for work, so he's less excited about a long plane trip than I am. (Heck, sitting on a plane going anywhere without my children sounds like heaven!)

Anybody have any good recommendations for us?

aaawwwww...

Last night after I sent the noisy boys up to bed, I peeked in on them to tuck them in. I overheard Twin B talking to his new stuffed dogs (a mom and a baby dog). "Come and join the family," he said, "Here's your place right here, next to Zebra. There, now isn't that cozy?" He must have fifteen stuffed animals on his bed, but they each have a special place!

So, so sweet.

Happy Birthday, noisy boys!

I complain about my kids plenty on this blog. I don’t mean to complain, I just describe what is, and it sounds like I’m complaining. For the record, I love my children more than anything else on this earth.

Let me tell you just a little bit about my life five years ago. My husband and I had moved across the country and had few-to-no geographically close friends; I was pregnant with twin boys; my husband was unemployed. Okay, you’ve got the picture. 26 weeks along in my pregnancy, I went into premature labor and was admitted to the hospital. It was the day before Thanksgiving. At 4 cm dilated, the doctor didn’t expect me to make it through the night without giving birth. They gave me a shot of steroids in an effort to develop the babies’ lungs and started me on a drip of magnesium sulfate to try to stop the labor. It wasn’t stopping. They prepped me for an emergency c-section and a neonatologist came into my room and gave me all kinds of scary statistics that I think she thought would reassure me. All I could think was, “This is not happening. These babies cannot come tonight. If they do, they’ll die.” I told the neonatologist to leave. Now. And then I told my doctor that my babies would not be coming tonight, and I would do everything in my power to stay pregnant until 32 weeks. My doctor laughed and told me to try to hang on a few more hours. My husband prayed. I prayed. And then the medication took over and I couldn’t form a coherent thought, but in my soul, I prayed still. And the labor slowed down.

I spent that first night throwing up while my husband and an angel nurse soaked towels in ice water and draped them across my burning-up body. Magnesium sulfate, among other things, causes hot flashes and nausea. I didn’t think I would survive, but I did. I named our noisy boys that night and let myself imagine that they would live. I dreamed of the noisy chaos that is now an everyday part of my life.

And for the next 6 weeks, one day at a time, I stayed pregnant. My doctor couldn’t believe it. Nurses went on vacation and came back, amazed that I was still there. Nobody tried to explain away the miracle. I went in and out of active labor; on and off of the magnesium sulfate. A few times, I got to get out of bed and take a shower. And on January 2, 2002, one day shy of 32 weeks, my noisy boys were born. I wept with relief, both that my ordeal was over and that they would both live. In the end, they each spent 6 weeks in the NICU. And today, they are healthy, happy five-year old boys who have no idea why their Mother holds them so tightly and cries on their birthday.

So, for all of the days I complain about the noise and the mess of raising these boys, let me balance it out by saying I wouldn’t trade my noisy boys for anything in the world. They are gifts from God. And, for the record, I haven’t missed a shower in the five years they’ve been alive!