We must move forward... not backwards, not to the side, not forwards, but always whirling, whirling, whirling towards freedom.

Honestly, I want to write more, say more-- but it just isn't there when I get a chance to sit down. Apparently the ability to open my head and pour guts on the keyboard is directly related to having a machine suck the life out of my nipples. Though it may be a simple post and lacking my usual award-winning sarcasm, it's only fair to give an update on my girls before they start dressing slutty and sneaking out of the house. For you, for them, for me. So I can remember a time when I didn't support the right to bear arms, much less bear those arms at the pubey mustache of a sixteen year old punk. He only wants ONE thing, girls. And that ONE thing isn't your quick wit or your mom's fabulous record collection. In fact, this punk doesn't even know what a RECORD is. I hate him. I HATE HIM!!!! HONEY, GIT MY ARMS OUTTA THA CUBBERD AN BRING EM ERE! I GOTS ME A LITTLE PECKER TO SHOOT OFF . . . (good luck, future suitors).

The girls are sick. No, not like Brandon and I-- not yet, anyhow. I did replace the usual That's Not My Mother with A Guide To Rational Thinking . . . it's never too early to address the mental illness that is their destiny. Zadie and Lydia show an increasing disinterest in story-time. Is it the new book or the early signs of depression? Hard to tell. Actually, they have been passing a cold back and forth since Thanksgiving. It's awesome.

They currently have six teeth (technically five-and-a-half), the half-tooth is slicing away as we speak. Add that to a stubborn cold, eczema, and an undecorated tree that has lived in our house for a week, and you get two babies that L-O-V-E-S them some Mommy-arms (the kind of arms that hold babies, not disable teenage boys from wearing too much cologne and mastering the craft of deception)-- but they also hate sharing Mommy. Which creates a Mommy that lays on the floor a lot. Has the urge to spend -- a lot-- of money. Pouts a lot. Yells at her husband. Probably a lot. Writes repetitive terms in her blog-posts.

Zadie is walking. As of tonight when she took one step forward and one step back and another one forward and did the hokey pokey and INTO MOMMY'S ARMS! She is hoping to learn to walk back IN the out door. I swear that child would give her right thumb to be INSIDE of me again. You can tell that sometimes holding me just. isn't. enough. She scrunches her face in frustration and digs her head into my skin. Burrowing for the womb.

Lydia talks. Uh-oh was the first word. Yes, uh-oh IS a word. Especially when used after her sister throws a sippy cup across the room. Uh-oh. Although it comes out more like "Uht- errhh" and is worth killing all of the teenage boys in America. Ma-ma is particularly popular for both girls . . . right before they scratch their eyeballs out of their faces. It's the prequel to a melt-down. Not exactly how I'd expected a year of devotion to be reciprocated but whatevs. MAMA MAMA MAMA . . . (wince) . . . AAAGGHHMAMAMA!!! Too endearing. Lydia also does this dictatorial-ranting-blabber that often involves debating with her father. You'd think she was Republican. They point fingers, bulb syringes, pistols . . . and JABABANABABAJABBA!! with such intensity that you can see the violent line of fire between them. I often wonder if Lydia really IS cursing him. What is she actually saying? You good for nothing daddy! I worked my ass off all day! Pulling the toys to the blankets and rearranging the clothes on the floor. You think you can just waltz right in and put everything back? I am BEYOND TIRED OF CLEANING UP AFTER YOU! Jabba-jabba. The girls often use this voice, though with a little more throaty RRRROAR, to talk to each other, inanimate objects and Layla (before she left us for Winter Vacation-- yes, Layla "winters" at the beach with Mimi and Pap Pap-- bless them).

The other night, right before bed (when the girls are their craziest, mind you) Lydia pulls a blanket over her head and then jerks it down and laughs. That's right, readers, she was proposing a late-night game of peek-a-boo. Brandon and I nearly fell out of our chairs-- peek-a-boo!! Hilarious!! Then she did it again and I was all I hope she never stops! This is so funny! Ten minutes later, I'll admit, the laughter and Where's Lydia?s were starting to sound a bit forced. Twenty minutes later I was contemplating the damage of stopping my child in the middle of practicing a new skill. After an hour, I was praying for a tornado. An earthquake. Some kind of natural phenomenon that would stop this endless game so that I could change my soiled pajamas and eat dinner on the couch. The following morning Zadie graced us with her knowledge of peek-a-boo. Big surprise, Zadie . . . would have been hard not to learn that after watching it four thousand, seven hundred and ninety-five times last night.

The girls are training for the Second Fall 2027 season of So You Think You Can Dance. I lie not-- these girls would shake their diapers to the windshield wipers if they weren't strapped, buckled, covered, smothered and chunked. Why is Zadie bobbing her head? Oh, someone's knocking on the door . . . I can't say that they don't get it absolutely honest. The ultimate salvation during the long stay-at-home-mom days is Balkan Beat Box and my dancing feet . . . and hands and hips and ears and hair and fingernails. You could say that I efficiently make use of my body when dancing. And now my children are doing the same. They definitely get their rhythm and tempo from their mama. While Brandon is an entertaining dancer, I will confess that he has only one dance. One tempo. One song in his head, regardless of what everyone else is hearing. I'm pretty sure the song is from Saturday Night Fever.

The girls LOVE the walkers that Mimi gave them. After watching them practice for a week, I was certain that these things were baby-death-traps, sent by Kang and Kodos of Planet Rigel VI . . . . but alas, Zadie walks with one hand on the walker and smokes a Virginia Slim with the other. Lydia, who, keep in mind, is a pound heavier, does a walk-slide that is efficient and absolutely hilarious. She holds the walker with both hands, rests on her left knee while "walking" with her right leg. My grandmother's response to this is "You're not walking! Get up!" Good ole Gee Gee, pushing them right along . . .

In other baby news:

• They're still pretty bald-- unless you are their parents. Apparently no one else notices the gigantic wispy hair that curls into Zadie's left ear.
• Lydia loves the baby. That's right, she holds the bear/doll/blanket to her face and snuggles it. Then I'll say Give it a kiss! and she'll hold it to her open mouth. I even saw her loving an empty water bottle earlier today.
• Zadie's favorite food is paper. She does not discriminate, any paper product will do.
  
• They read.
  
• No seriously, they will open a book, stare intently at the pages and talk in this matter-of-fact voice. Imagine Sigourney Weaver on Planet Earth . . . OOOH! Even better: David Attenbourough on Planet Earth, "A jibbajibbajibb nanananah baHHAHH AHH nananajibbajib." Then turn the page TO THE LEFT and conclude by eating the book's spine.
• Dude, Lydia has this new smile. It's like she's incredibly proud of her four top teeth and wants the world to see them. Squinchy face, scrunchy nose, squinty eyes, head tilted back, gaping smile. Unreal.
  
• Nothing is better. Honestly . . . NOTHING. In the first months of motherhood, I judged happy mothers for lying and always wondered WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO TRICK OTHER WOMEN INTO BEING MISERABLE?? WHY DON'T YOU JUST TELL THE TRUTH?? THAT YOUR LIFE HAS BEEN RUINED BY BECOMING A MOTHER?? Now I understand. Those women are not immediately postpartum, aren't suffering from postpartum depression, aren't seeing purple rhinos on the ceiling fan due to sleep deprivation and definitely didn't just spit two babies out of their vaginas. And then pursue a gold medal in the Tandem Breastfeeding category.
  

If I ever write a post that tells you to have children to battle depression, fill a void or create happiness, find me. Then shoot me in the kneecaps.

However, I will say this: I am happy. I have never been more overworked and less appreciated, but I have never been happier.