Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
field of dreams and the hum of a one night stand with a sewing machine
After obtaining a fantabulous BFA in Art, the world was throwing jobs at me. So many choices . . . should I go for the six digit offer or the job where I can design from my bed for one and a half days a week and get paid for six?
In my desperation and hunger, I reached deep down into my trendy hippie soul and listened to the ragged, untrustworthy voice of my cracked-out inner hippie, "Dude, if you sew it they will straight up buy it. Or at least give you a heady trade . . . "
I listened and they bought. Enough to pay my rent, loans, and utilities. I worked for myself and I was happy doing it. A little fretful about whether the money would come in (or not), but I worked for myself. Those of you who know me know that I get along with myself better than anyone . . . it was the perfect work relationship.
Then I turned to real jobs with benefits and 401Ks and bosses. Some of the jobs were awesome and rewarding, some I walked out of because the rage within me could create the spontaneous combustion of my boss' brain on sight alone.
Now I am truly working. This is a job that I can't clock out of and, yes, I am my own boss (so the kids let me think), but how I wish there were someone to substitute for me sometimes. There is a diaper trail for miles and manuscripts of "Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?" are piled high, just waiting to be copied over and over (and over).
When I was preggozoid, we contemplated my staying at home. I loved my job and knew that I would never land a gig like that again . . . but it would cost my salary to put the kids in child care. So, do I choose to work for the sake of working? For a sense of self? For sanity and gratitude? To get away from my children? The answer was given in the form of my boss cutting my position weeks before I was to come back. It was even easier than flipping a coin.
I really thought I would be okay with this stay-at-home thing. I'm on medication . . . I've mastered deep breathing . . . I've accepted my fate as the mother of twins. The motherthatmothersallthetimeandneverstopsmothering. I had come to terms with this. But I needed more. Just a little something to call mine. Something other than the well-stocked wine rack and this keyboard. Something that does not involve the motherthatmotherswiththemotheringallthetime.
Between work-pregnant and immobile-pregnant in was able to create some lovely pieces that I'd hoped to sell on Etsy. Seeing as how I spent every penny of my disability on felted shoes and crocheted hats, I figured their must be a niche for me. So, I finished a few items and just knew that once the babies were born I'd have all of this free time to start a store. Let's all laugh together now.
After coming across these wonderful pieces that have been collecting dust for eight months, I began photographing them and designing my store while pumping. This has taken away from my typing while pumping. I'm sure you've all wondered when I have time to update this blog so often. See, I have a fold-out table set up beside of the computer and I sit in my desk-chair, pump attached to breasts and steady the bottles with my inner fore-arms as I type. Seeing as how I am a single-handed Dairy Farm, there's lots of typing to be done. Now my store competes with this dear blog . . .
So, AHEM, drumrolllllllllllllllllllllll:
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, FRIENDS AND FAMILY, GENEROUS PEOPLE WITH MONEY IN THEIR POCKETS JUST WAITING TO BE SPENT ON SOMETHING RIDICULOUSLY CUTE, I ANNOUNCE:
The opening of my Etsy store: freckletree.
Taa-daa.
Just in case you haven't notice the many adverts in this blog (shameless plug), you can check it out at www.freckletree.etsy.com.
When I was preggozoid, we contemplated my staying at home. I loved my job and knew that I would never land a gig like that again . . . but it would cost my salary to put the kids in child care. So, do I choose to work for the sake of working? For a sense of self? For sanity and gratitude? To get away from my children? The answer was given in the form of my boss cutting my position weeks before I was to come back. It was even easier than flipping a coin.
I really thought I would be okay with this stay-at-home thing. I'm on medication . . . I've mastered deep breathing . . . I've accepted my fate as the mother of twins. The motherthatmothersallthetimeandneverstopsmothering. I had come to terms with this. But I needed more. Just a little something to call mine. Something other than the well-stocked wine rack and this keyboard. Something that does not involve the motherthatmotherswiththemotheringallthetime.
Between work-pregnant and immobile-pregnant in was able to create some lovely pieces that I'd hoped to sell on Etsy. Seeing as how I spent every penny of my disability on felted shoes and crocheted hats, I figured their must be a niche for me. So, I finished a few items and just knew that once the babies were born I'd have all of this free time to start a store. Let's all laugh together now.
After coming across these wonderful pieces that have been collecting dust for eight months, I began photographing them and designing my store while pumping. This has taken away from my typing while pumping. I'm sure you've all wondered when I have time to update this blog so often. See, I have a fold-out table set up beside of the computer and I sit in my desk-chair, pump attached to breasts and steady the bottles with my inner fore-arms as I type. Seeing as how I am a single-handed Dairy Farm, there's lots of typing to be done. Now my store competes with this dear blog . . .
So, AHEM, drumrolllllllllllllllllllllll:
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, FRIENDS AND FAMILY, GENEROUS PEOPLE WITH MONEY IN THEIR POCKETS JUST WAITING TO BE SPENT ON SOMETHING RIDICULOUSLY CUTE, I ANNOUNCE:
The opening of my Etsy store: freckletree.
Taa-daa.
Just in case you haven't notice the many adverts in this blog (shameless plug), you can check it out at www.freckletree.etsy.com.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
SNAPS june 27, 2009
We told Zadie that Lydia's lashes were extra-long because her afternoon nap was extra-long.Saturday, June 27, 2009
You Know You Need a Break When You Start Quoting Arnold Schwarzenegger
I gained seventy pounds with the girls. Apparently fifteen pounds was the sack holding my litter and another forty-five pounds was fluid. Seriously. In the end I was gaining two pounds a day. I kept thinking I know that I'm not eating this much. Granted I couldn't get off of the couch without bringing a crane in through the front porch . . . but really. Body parts would suddenly engorge, as if someone were squeezing the water balloon that I had become. I would come back from the bathroom and my feet would have grown three times their size after urinating three ounces. I woke up one morning (mind you, we-- all five of us-- are sleeping on the couch these last couple of months . . . I got lonely in my misery) to find that things just didn't feel right between my legs. I couldn't see that part of my body, but could feel that there was definitely a grove stand selling enormous grapefruit to passersby. The doctors repetitively explained that "This sometimes happens with twins," or "Remember, you having twins," or "Anything goes with twins." Fine, but can I at least get a juicer?
I lost sixty pounds the first week. The weekend after giving birth I spent twenty-four hours on magnesium sulfate (to keep me from having a stroke and killing over). Not exactly the first drunk you want to have after getting out of prison, but it was the ULTIMATE diet. When the IV was pulled Brandon helped me to the bathroom and gasped, "Look! Look at your body!" And there before me, in the mirror, stood a waif of a supermodel . . . a tangled mess complete with dark circles hanging under the hollow holes in her face. Hospital panties could have been sold in Victoria's Secret and I was their muse.
How amazing and invigorating it was to drop sixty pounds in one week. To stare at my hands, my feet, my rail of a reflection in the mirror.
Five months later and I haven't lost another pound. I have, in fact, gained two. When can you stop excusing yourself with, "Well, I just gave birth to twins"?? Well, I just gave birth to twins a half of a year ago. I no longer resemble Twiggy when I look in my mirror. In fact, my mirror is quite apologetic. It tries an empathetic, sunny approach. You'll drop those extra twelve pounds once you stop breastfeeding. But my mirror knows. As do I: I am going to have to accelerate my heart rate. Nearly my least favorite thing, second only to not eating cake.
Apparently, this is obvious to other people, also. Honest people, like my grandmother. The other day I was dancing in front of the babies and my grandmother was sitting on the couch, watching. Out of nowhere and with ease, she says, "You're going to have to work to get rid of that tummy." What do I say to that? Nothing . . . she's right. So, I did what any fat, postpartum mother would do when being called out. I proudly stood in confidence and did The Milkshake. "My Milkshake brings all the boys to the yard, Damn right, it's better than yours, I could teach you, but I'd have to charge . . ." Gyrating and shaking that Mommy-Fat-Milkshake for my babies. This heeds another honest response from my dear grandmother, "You're going to have to stop acting like that when they get older or they are going to start acting like you." Touche.
I used to be so fit. One solid piece of beautiful, long, toned muscle. I used to move. Walk briskly. Even exercise. I used to do push-ups with ease. Not sissy-pansy-pants-girly-push-ups. I did boy push-ups, clap push-ups, diamond push-ups. Somewhere inside my feminine physique was Arnold Schwarzenegger, just waiting to spew a bad one-liner.
So, yesterday, while the girls were tummy timing it up, I decided to give those old push-ups a try. Surely I could do ten or so . . .
Nope, not even one. Not one! I was so embarrassed and looked to see if my babies had noticed. They were fixated on drowning in their own slobber. I was in the clear. Carefully positioning myself off of my bum knee, for the first time in my life, I went down into a girl push-up. And I could barely do it. All of those years of mocking cheerleaders and girls in gym class . . . and here I was . . . weak and worn. And ashamed. I could do five. Five.
Today I woke up and thought what is that pain? What did I do yesterday?
Oh, Joy! That's right! You did girl push-ups. Five whole girl push-ups.
And this morning, all I can hear is my inner Arnold mocking . . . "girlie-man".
I lost sixty pounds the first week. The weekend after giving birth I spent twenty-four hours on magnesium sulfate (to keep me from having a stroke and killing over). Not exactly the first drunk you want to have after getting out of prison, but it was the ULTIMATE diet. When the IV was pulled Brandon helped me to the bathroom and gasped, "Look! Look at your body!" And there before me, in the mirror, stood a waif of a supermodel . . . a tangled mess complete with dark circles hanging under the hollow holes in her face. Hospital panties could have been sold in Victoria's Secret and I was their muse.
How amazing and invigorating it was to drop sixty pounds in one week. To stare at my hands, my feet, my rail of a reflection in the mirror.
Five months later and I haven't lost another pound. I have, in fact, gained two. When can you stop excusing yourself with, "Well, I just gave birth to twins"?? Well, I just gave birth to twins a half of a year ago. I no longer resemble Twiggy when I look in my mirror. In fact, my mirror is quite apologetic. It tries an empathetic, sunny approach. You'll drop those extra twelve pounds once you stop breastfeeding. But my mirror knows. As do I: I am going to have to accelerate my heart rate. Nearly my least favorite thing, second only to not eating cake.
Apparently, this is obvious to other people, also. Honest people, like my grandmother. The other day I was dancing in front of the babies and my grandmother was sitting on the couch, watching. Out of nowhere and with ease, she says, "You're going to have to work to get rid of that tummy." What do I say to that? Nothing . . . she's right. So, I did what any fat, postpartum mother would do when being called out. I proudly stood in confidence and did The Milkshake. "My Milkshake brings all the boys to the yard, Damn right, it's better than yours, I could teach you, but I'd have to charge . . ." Gyrating and shaking that Mommy-Fat-Milkshake for my babies. This heeds another honest response from my dear grandmother, "You're going to have to stop acting like that when they get older or they are going to start acting like you." Touche.
I used to be so fit. One solid piece of beautiful, long, toned muscle. I used to move. Walk briskly. Even exercise. I used to do push-ups with ease. Not sissy-pansy-pants-girly-push-ups. I did boy push-ups, clap push-ups, diamond push-ups. Somewhere inside my feminine physique was Arnold Schwarzenegger, just waiting to spew a bad one-liner.
So, yesterday, while the girls were tummy timing it up, I decided to give those old push-ups a try. Surely I could do ten or so . . .
Nope, not even one. Not one! I was so embarrassed and looked to see if my babies had noticed. They were fixated on drowning in their own slobber. I was in the clear. Carefully positioning myself off of my bum knee, for the first time in my life, I went down into a girl push-up. And I could barely do it. All of those years of mocking cheerleaders and girls in gym class . . . and here I was . . . weak and worn. And ashamed. I could do five. Five.
Today I woke up and thought what is that pain? What did I do yesterday?
Oh, Joy! That's right! You did girl push-ups. Five whole girl push-ups.
And this morning, all I can hear is my inner Arnold mocking . . . "girlie-man".
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
HAPPINESS IS A WARM GUN. (bang bang. shoot shoot.)
I had a beautiful, little red bird. It was the shiniest bird you've ever seen. I would ask my other bird loving friends about their own birds-- just so I could tell them about mine. About the perfection of his melody. My shiny red bird. He made me feel so special. I mean, this was MY BIRD and no one else's. You don't just happen upon a perfect, singing, little red companion everyday. I pride myself to tears. My bird. My lovely bird.
But last week everything changed. My bird flew head-on into the kitchen window. He was more than a little dazed. He was broken. His shiny red became sparse and dull. His song was no more than a croak. And though his neck wasn't broken, he did little more than lay by the windowsill and I can see it in his eyes. He wished he flown a little harder. Maybe then . . . oh, it's so hard . . . maybe then he would have broken his neck. Instead of breaking his life and dwelling.
This red bird has a name. At times, when he was my shiny, singing friend, I fondly called him "Sleep."
See, when you are training two newborns to sleep through the night, you can't cheat. You can't bring them into your bed to breastfeed or keep a pack and play at the foot of your bed. You don't skip bath time, or go more than ten minutes over the official Bed Time. Everything is a routine and that routine is followed precisely-- without wavering under any circumstances. And it works. Our babies were sleeping ten plus hours straight coming into the third month. Remember, we are banking on BOTH infants to sleep through the night, or else our sleep is broken. And we slowly transform into Mooaaaning, Grooaaaning Myrtle and haunt the night with our piercingly annoying cries. And everyone wishes that we'd just disappear back into the toilet or wherever we came from.
I am the epitome of Myrtle. After two months of dream sleeping . . . staying up late and drinking a bottle of wine at night . . . why? Because sleep is a long, deep and celebrated journey of soft darkness, my friend. The days of dropping the swaddled worm into the crib and mad-dashing under the sheets are forgotten. Life is good. I no longer count the hours on my shaking fingers as I try to put myself down for the third time that night. No, dear friend, my bird can sing.
And randomly the babies just started waking up in the middle of the night. Not after sleeping eight or nine hours, even. Thinking that it was a one or two time thing, I relished a nightly breastfeeding. It was sweet and romantic. Until it wasn't anymore. It was Brandon and I both getting up. It was 2:00. Again at 5:00. And the babies were ready to start the day at 6:30. No, no, children. You are about to be introduced to the beast that lives within your soft, kind mother.
So, I researched.
We started cereal. No luck.
We unswaddled. Yeah right.
We separated them. Wishful thinking.
And then I had this idea to put them back into their small swaddles again. Victory was ours. Twelve hours without a peep. Probably because those small swaddles were so tight that even their vocal chords were back in the womb. I only heard the sound of sweet little tweets in the distance.
The next night Layla had something in her mouth. A GIFT! Her tail was flailing and she shook her head a bit to let me know that OH, THIS IS SUCH A WONDERFUL GIFT I HAVE FOR YOU! SO MUCH BETTER THAN WONDERFULLY WONDERFUL GOODNESS AND YOU WILL LOVE ME! YOU WILL LOVE ME! YES, LOVE ME! And she dropped my mangled, dead slobber-sopping bird at my feet. And while she was standing at my feet, sitting pretty, waiting for praise, a bulbous tick leaped from her blonde wires onto our couch. That tick crawled up Zadie's pants yesterday afternoon. Layla's bird is dead now too. She is not allowed into the house. Many praises for your generous gifts, Layla. Thank you.
Brandon flushed the bird down the same toilet that Moaning Groaning Myrtle lived in before she entered our souls.
I no longer ask parents how long their children are sleeping through the night.
But last week everything changed. My bird flew head-on into the kitchen window. He was more than a little dazed. He was broken. His shiny red became sparse and dull. His song was no more than a croak. And though his neck wasn't broken, he did little more than lay by the windowsill and I can see it in his eyes. He wished he flown a little harder. Maybe then . . . oh, it's so hard . . . maybe then he would have broken his neck. Instead of breaking his life and dwelling.
This red bird has a name. At times, when he was my shiny, singing friend, I fondly called him "Sleep."
See, when you are training two newborns to sleep through the night, you can't cheat. You can't bring them into your bed to breastfeed or keep a pack and play at the foot of your bed. You don't skip bath time, or go more than ten minutes over the official Bed Time. Everything is a routine and that routine is followed precisely-- without wavering under any circumstances. And it works. Our babies were sleeping ten plus hours straight coming into the third month. Remember, we are banking on BOTH infants to sleep through the night, or else our sleep is broken. And we slowly transform into Mooaaaning, Grooaaaning Myrtle and haunt the night with our piercingly annoying cries. And everyone wishes that we'd just disappear back into the toilet or wherever we came from.
I am the epitome of Myrtle. After two months of dream sleeping . . . staying up late and drinking a bottle of wine at night . . . why? Because sleep is a long, deep and celebrated journey of soft darkness, my friend. The days of dropping the swaddled worm into the crib and mad-dashing under the sheets are forgotten. Life is good. I no longer count the hours on my shaking fingers as I try to put myself down for the third time that night. No, dear friend, my bird can sing.
And randomly the babies just started waking up in the middle of the night. Not after sleeping eight or nine hours, even. Thinking that it was a one or two time thing, I relished a nightly breastfeeding. It was sweet and romantic. Until it wasn't anymore. It was Brandon and I both getting up. It was 2:00. Again at 5:00. And the babies were ready to start the day at 6:30. No, no, children. You are about to be introduced to the beast that lives within your soft, kind mother.
So, I researched.
We started cereal. No luck.
We unswaddled. Yeah right.
We separated them. Wishful thinking.
And then I had this idea to put them back into their small swaddles again. Victory was ours. Twelve hours without a peep. Probably because those small swaddles were so tight that even their vocal chords were back in the womb. I only heard the sound of sweet little tweets in the distance.
The next night Layla had something in her mouth. A GIFT! Her tail was flailing and she shook her head a bit to let me know that OH, THIS IS SUCH A WONDERFUL GIFT I HAVE FOR YOU! SO MUCH BETTER THAN WONDERFULLY WONDERFUL GOODNESS AND YOU WILL LOVE ME! YOU WILL LOVE ME! YES, LOVE ME! And she dropped my mangled, dead slobber-sopping bird at my feet. And while she was standing at my feet, sitting pretty, waiting for praise, a bulbous tick leaped from her blonde wires onto our couch. That tick crawled up Zadie's pants yesterday afternoon. Layla's bird is dead now too. She is not allowed into the house. Many praises for your generous gifts, Layla. Thank you.
Brandon flushed the bird down the same toilet that Moaning Groaning Myrtle lived in before she entered our souls.
I no longer ask parents how long their children are sleeping through the night.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
things.
Orla Kieley Mugs for Target. I have five. Each keeps me high a minimum of six days.
5x6=30
A month of happiness. Thank you Target.
Monday, June 22, 2009
SNAPS june 20, 2009
You would probably prefer the photograph of Zadie smiling with cereal-face.Or Lydia contemplating eating her bib.
But I have the power.
And I love this picture.
SNAPS june 19, 2009
Did anyone tell them that we turn five months old today? What's with this baby crap?No, as a matter of fact, no one told us that they turned five months old today.
And we forgot.
And we forgot.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Hooked On Phonics
I was sitting at the coffee house, blogging for all of two minutes. The blog featured the word: "weed eat".
And so I wrote: Brandon gets to weedeed the lawn for an hour if I get to go ALONE to the local coffee house and write for an hour.
I knew that this did not look right. Spellcheck agreed but offered no sensible solutions.
Weedeed.
Weedead?
Wee deed?
I just couldn't figure it out, so I kept it the same . . . weedeed.
Later that night I asked Brandon if he knew the correct spelling for weedeed.
"What?"
"Weedeed."
"Do you mean weed eat?"
Weed eat? What the hell is weed eat? Some kind of hungry pesticide?
"No, weedeed . . . like a weedeeder. Or weedeeding the lawn."
Now everything sounded ridiculous.
Brandon proceeded to laugh. And laugh. Apparently the reason that I couldn't figure out how to spell it is because it is not a word.
I am twenty-seven years old and three days ago I learned that the word that I had been saying my entire life, weedeed, is actually weed eat. In my pride and stubbornness (and because weed eat is a very stupid word) I have chosen to boycott both. From this day forward, it will simply be described as "that thing that you cut weeds with".
And so I wrote: Brandon gets to weedeed the lawn for an hour if I get to go ALONE to the local coffee house and write for an hour.
I knew that this did not look right. Spellcheck agreed but offered no sensible solutions.
Weedeed.
Weedead?
Wee deed?
I just couldn't figure it out, so I kept it the same . . . weedeed.
Later that night I asked Brandon if he knew the correct spelling for weedeed.
"What?"
"Weedeed."
"Do you mean weed eat?"
Weed eat? What the hell is weed eat? Some kind of hungry pesticide?
"No, weedeed . . . like a weedeeder. Or weedeeding the lawn."
Now everything sounded ridiculous.
Brandon proceeded to laugh. And laugh. Apparently the reason that I couldn't figure out how to spell it is because it is not a word.
I am twenty-seven years old and three days ago I learned that the word that I had been saying my entire life, weedeed, is actually weed eat. In my pride and stubbornness (and because weed eat is a very stupid word) I have chosen to boycott both. From this day forward, it will simply be described as "that thing that you cut weeds with".
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
And I thought I lived in a time-warp . . .
The other night I was at Moe's. I was in line, scanning the weekly special board with the couple in front of me. MMMMMmmmmmm . . . Monday: Burrito Night. The middle-aged, very normal looking woman in front of me leans into her husband, "Oh, Wednesday: Tacos."
This has been the longest week of her life.
This has been the longest week of her life.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
Not that anyone cares
Okay, I have bargained for an hour. Brandon gets to weed eat the lawn for an hour if I get to go ALONE to the local coffee house and write for an hour. He thought it was weighted in my favor but still went for it.
I have to leave in one minute.
I have been at the coffee house for fifty-two minutes trying to figure out how to connect to their broadband. HERE I AM! With just enough time to write this ridiculous blog about what I spent my sought after babyless hour doing.
Figuring out how to connect to the Internet.
Asshole Internet.
I have to leave in one minute.
I have been at the coffee house for fifty-two minutes trying to figure out how to connect to their broadband. HERE I AM! With just enough time to write this ridiculous blog about what I spent my sought after babyless hour doing.
Figuring out how to connect to the Internet.
Asshole Internet.
THE RELEASE OF THE DETAINEES
My mom babysat for us.
I became a Mama on a Mission.
To get drunk.
We put the babies to bed before Grandmaw's Shift (we all sipped a bottle before bedtime). All she had to do was relax, drink her Diet Lipton Green Tea, and watch Brad Pitt's beautiful body grace our television set. Now that's what I call babysitting.
First stop on my mission: Ru Sans. This is a cheap sushi house. Baby Sapporo. Saki Boom. Saki Boom. Big Daddy Sapporo.
Slluuuuuurrrrrrrr.
Second stop on my mission: Some bar/pizza joint. It replaced a different bar/pizza joint but didn't replace much else.
HICCUP. HICCUP.
Third stop on my mission: Courtney's. My friend just HICCUP moved a block down from the replaced bar/pizza joint. We HICCUP walked to her house. I left Brandon at the bar. I took my pint with me. I ate peanut butter. It didn't HICCUP work.
Fourth stop on my mission: Pavement. When walking back from Courtney's, I spotted a long, lost friend down the road. I decided to tackle him so fast that he wouldn't even know that it was me (first mistake: the desire to tackle on pavement. second mistake: running while drunk. third mistake: going out in public.). Before I could rationalize, my arms were pumping, my breath quickening and SCREEEEEEEEEECH. That was the sound of flesh on pavement. About five feet before lunging a tackle, my feet must have betrayed me. I tripped. And dove. And slid across pavement and right up to his feet. My immediate reaction was to act hurt. It would be funny, right? Apparently, I was a very good actor because my friends started sounding concerned, even fearful. So I couldn't really pretend because everyone's all like "JOY! AGGGHHHH! JOY! ARE YOU OKAY?? OH GOD! OH MY GOD! AGGGGGGHHHH!!! OH GOD! JOY?????????"
It was serious.
So I laughed. And my long, lost friend laughed.
I'm pretty sure that Courtney didn't laugh. See, she thought I'd hit my head. She didn't think it was as funny as the rest of us.
I jump up, bubbling, laughing and hugging. This is awesome! Then I look down and notice that the $100 jeans that I bought last week are ripped open at the knee. Oh shit! Then I see something inside the gaping hole. Red. Ooozing. Flesh. Or lack of flesh to be exact. Gravel. No sign of a white knee anywhere to be found inside of that hole. In fact, my hands were stinging a little bit too. Oh yeah, I'd just slid face-down across the street. And I thought I was acting.
Mission accomplished.
HICCUP. HICCUP.
Third stop on my mission: Courtney's. My friend just HICCUP moved a block down from the replaced bar/pizza joint. We HICCUP walked to her house. I left Brandon at the bar. I took my pint with me. I ate peanut butter. It didn't HICCUP work.
Fourth stop on my mission: Pavement. When walking back from Courtney's, I spotted a long, lost friend down the road. I decided to tackle him so fast that he wouldn't even know that it was me (first mistake: the desire to tackle on pavement. second mistake: running while drunk. third mistake: going out in public.). Before I could rationalize, my arms were pumping, my breath quickening and SCREEEEEEEEEECH. That was the sound of flesh on pavement. About five feet before lunging a tackle, my feet must have betrayed me. I tripped. And dove. And slid across pavement and right up to his feet. My immediate reaction was to act hurt. It would be funny, right? Apparently, I was a very good actor because my friends started sounding concerned, even fearful. So I couldn't really pretend because everyone's all like "JOY! AGGGHHHH! JOY! ARE YOU OKAY?? OH GOD! OH MY GOD! AGGGGGGHHHH!!! OH GOD! JOY?????????"
It was serious.
So I laughed. And my long, lost friend laughed.
I'm pretty sure that Courtney didn't laugh. See, she thought I'd hit my head. She didn't think it was as funny as the rest of us.
I jump up, bubbling, laughing and hugging. This is awesome! Then I look down and notice that the $100 jeans that I bought last week are ripped open at the knee. Oh shit! Then I see something inside the gaping hole. Red. Ooozing. Flesh. Or lack of flesh to be exact. Gravel. No sign of a white knee anywhere to be found inside of that hole. In fact, my hands were stinging a little bit too. Oh yeah, I'd just slid face-down across the street. And I thought I was acting.
Mission accomplished.
SNAPS june 14, 2009
destiny:
1. something in which a person or thing is destined: fortune
2. a predetermined course of events often held to be an irresistible power or agency
1. something in which a person or thing is destined: fortune
2. a predetermined course of events often held to be an irresistible power or agency
NUM NUM.
There is baby paraphernalia stuffed in every hidden corner of our house. Behind every closed door is a cheap, plastic, pastel object just waiting to aid in the development of our growing children. We are blessed with generous friends and family . . . thus many baby showers. After the showers I would put away mounds of gifts. First the GIANT closet in the nursery filled. Then the bathroom vanity . . . car trunks . . . pantries . . . we actually still have gifts in bags. Stored beside the kitchen table. Every couple of days I'll courageously stick my arm into the bottomless baby pit and pull out something new and exciting. "Look! A Johnny Jump-Up!" "Awesome! A Bumbo!" "Wow! A pint of Tequila!" It's a never ending shopping spree that always leaves me with something to throw at the babies waning attention span.
In the depths of our kitchen are beautiful built-in china cabinets. They are one of the many reasons that I always wonder how we lucked upon living in this place (and why no one else snatched it up before us-- perhaps people are looking for a house where you can watch your neighbors brush their teeth when moving to Gaston County). Below these glass china cabinets are storage space. And we know what happens to storage. It becomes a baby pit. I remember putting bags of goods in this pit before my girls were here. I remember thinking that I would have gray hair before I visited this particular cabinet again. That my children would be packing their belongings for that long sought after trip to college. But, to my surprise and dismay, I visited the cabinet yesterday. I opened the doors and pulled out the bags. And washed the contents: colorful plastic bowls and soft tipped spoons that change colors when they become hot. Yes, I wiped my mommy-flavored tears with a dishtowel and fed my children their first bowl of cereal. A meal that required no part of my breast: whether it be producing the goodness or cuddling a baby to it's warmth while feeding.
My big girls sat up nice and tall in their high chairs. We snapped the giant bibs around their neck (I was wondering when we would find a use for bibs this big). Brandon scoped the best angles to record the experiment. Over my shoulder? Behind the table? Side Zadie or Side Lydia? Perhaps hanging from the ceiling? In my opinion it was a detail that was wasting precious moments of happy-baby time. He finally chose his position and we embarked on the most hilarious adventure to date.
Mothers always tell me that it takes so long for children to actually learn to eat. That they play with the cereal. Tongue it. Spit it back out. Have long conversations through mushy mouths. My babies were born to eat. Lydia, in fact, was slurping and sucking it down so fast that she started fussing at me for not producing it in a timely manner. Big surprise there, Fat Girl. Zadie just kept giving me those ridiculous looks that I always get: What the hell is this shit??????? Then: Thank you, Mom, it is most delicious and can I have more, please? And more . . . until the purple bowl is clean. And they are still begging for more. These are definitely my children. With my appetite. I always clean my plate. Then ask for seconds. And finish Brandon's leftovers. Because Brandon eats like my mom. Or better yet, like a baby bird.
Yes these are my children . . . slurping and crying for more.
Rather advanced, I'd say.
Maybe next Sunday I'll tell them how babies are made.
In the depths of our kitchen are beautiful built-in china cabinets. They are one of the many reasons that I always wonder how we lucked upon living in this place (and why no one else snatched it up before us-- perhaps people are looking for a house where you can watch your neighbors brush their teeth when moving to Gaston County). Below these glass china cabinets are storage space. And we know what happens to storage. It becomes a baby pit. I remember putting bags of goods in this pit before my girls were here. I remember thinking that I would have gray hair before I visited this particular cabinet again. That my children would be packing their belongings for that long sought after trip to college. But, to my surprise and dismay, I visited the cabinet yesterday. I opened the doors and pulled out the bags. And washed the contents: colorful plastic bowls and soft tipped spoons that change colors when they become hot. Yes, I wiped my mommy-flavored tears with a dishtowel and fed my children their first bowl of cereal. A meal that required no part of my breast: whether it be producing the goodness or cuddling a baby to it's warmth while feeding.
My big girls sat up nice and tall in their high chairs. We snapped the giant bibs around their neck (I was wondering when we would find a use for bibs this big). Brandon scoped the best angles to record the experiment. Over my shoulder? Behind the table? Side Zadie or Side Lydia? Perhaps hanging from the ceiling? In my opinion it was a detail that was wasting precious moments of happy-baby time. He finally chose his position and we embarked on the most hilarious adventure to date.
Mothers always tell me that it takes so long for children to actually learn to eat. That they play with the cereal. Tongue it. Spit it back out. Have long conversations through mushy mouths. My babies were born to eat. Lydia, in fact, was slurping and sucking it down so fast that she started fussing at me for not producing it in a timely manner. Big surprise there, Fat Girl. Zadie just kept giving me those ridiculous looks that I always get: What the hell is this shit??????? Then: Thank you, Mom, it is most delicious and can I have more, please? And more . . . until the purple bowl is clean. And they are still begging for more. These are definitely my children. With my appetite. I always clean my plate. Then ask for seconds. And finish Brandon's leftovers. Because Brandon eats like my mom. Or better yet, like a baby bird.
Yes these are my children . . . slurping and crying for more.
Rather advanced, I'd say.
Maybe next Sunday I'll tell them how babies are made.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
SNAPS june 11, 2009
The babies take their first nap within an hour and a half of waking up. After sleeping twelve hours. It's like clockwork: if they wake up at 7:30, they will start crying and rubbing eyes at 8:55. It's what gets me out of bed every morning. Mind you, this nap never exceeds thirty minutes . . . not enough time to pump twenty plus ounces . . . but I'll take it. It's very simple: I lay them on their backs, candy paci in mouth, as many blankies and silkies as I can find in arms and they nod. It's the easiest thing that I do all day.
Due to unpredictable napping patterns and the new found ability to pull noses and squeeze eyeballs, they are napping in separate cribs. This is how I found them when I heard them making their little waking squeaks and moans:
Due to unpredictable napping patterns and the new found ability to pull noses and squeeze eyeballs, they are napping in separate cribs. This is how I found them when I heard them making their little waking squeaks and moans:
Zadie obviously didn't get the "back is best" memo
Mommy obviously didn't get the "no soft, suffocating objects" memoI have been using Shop-Therapy to keep me from buying a one way ticket to anywhere-but-here.
We have a sign in our kitchen that reads "The greatest things in life aren't things." Not exactly my motto, but I respect it. THINGS will, however, motivate you to pick up two crying children and walk them to happiness. That, in fact, cost $100.00 (and it was on clearance!!). Day in and day out requires trips to Target every once in a while. This week I visited Target . . . and Nordstrom and Anthropology. And, the heaven that good mommies go to when they die: IKEA. Granted you have to load up on sedatives to enter it's vast depths, but whoa!!!! It is so worth the scuba gear.
You wouldn't believe the wonderful THINGS that are keeping me going right now! I plan to photograph more of my motivational THINGS in days to come!! I just love them so much!
A symbolic mobile from IKEA:
Mommy is the Panda.
The snake is Mommy's life.
You can guess who the Monkey and Elephant are . . .
The Holder of the Breast
The past week has been pretty intense.
Every new mother must have moments . . . I have weeks. I have two babies. I have a panic disorder. I have an incredible support system . . . or else I would have a straight-jacket.
When mothering, I can't help but to think about my own mother. I will be the first to admit that I am incredibly selfish and therefore forget that there are other people coexisting in the same realm of time and space as myself. And they have lives and stories and families of their own. Alas, every once in a while I'll have one of Oprah's "a-hah" moments. I remember that regardless of my age, my mother is still a mother. She is still mothering me.
Last Friday, in the heart of a nervous break down, I was crying, "I can't change anything! I'm stuck here! I can't leave this situation! I, ultimately alone, am responsible for these babies! Forever! I am the last stop for these crying, hungry, sleepy things! I have the breast! I HAVE THE BREAST!" Later that day, after my mother released me into the wild of Southpark Mall, it occurred to me that NO, it would never change. NEVER. Because I am twenty-seven years old. And my mother is at my house, watching my children, because I was crying. She alone has the proverbial breast that soothes me.
Women always talk about how they went through periods of hating their mothers-- usually as teenagers. I never felt that way about my mother (the same is true for husbands . . .). So I often don't identify with the relationships between mothers and daughters. Does this mean that I might possess a gene that will enable my girls to not just love me, but actually like me during that miserable period between puberty and adulthood? When sweet baby girls transform into self-pitying, self-righteous, self-consumed mental-cases? I am nothing like my mother. My children probably already hate me.
While visiting Brevard last month, I was singing to Zadie with a friend of mine. This friend just happens to be a first-grader. She wanted to sing the Alphabet Song (better known as My ABC's) to the baby and I have to admit that I'm a bit too cool for that. My babies might not recognize a lullaby for being cooed and rocked by Radiohead and MIA. I showed my first-grade buddy how to sashay her shoulders and sing "jazzy". Not missing a beat, My ABC's never sounded so sexy. Later she was telling her mom about Sexy Lullaby Time. Her mother started a rendition of what a jazzed up My ABC's would sound like. The girl sighed. So disappointed. Her mom just wasn't as cool as me. During glorious "adult time" that night, we were discussing this misfortune and the father said, "I always thought I would be the coolest person to my kids. But I'm not at all. Everyone else is cooler than me."
This hit me so hard.
Does this mean that I won't be the coolest person to my own children?? I have banked on this and worked SO HARD. One day they will worship me for never putting bridal garters around their heads or dressing them like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Right?
Then an image popped into my head: at the height of Hammertime . . . my mother dancing The Hammer.
My evil redheaded brother would give me positive attention when I did The Hammer. Think of the bully on A Christmas Story: that's my brother Josh. I'm sure he would deny ever having been nice to me as a child, but I swear to it: when I would do the MC Hammer dance he would chant, "Go Jo-y, go Jo-y, go, go, go Jo-y." So I never stop doing it. I hammered in place. I hammered backward. I hammered in circles. I'm pretty sure that I tried to hammer forward but that's just ridiculous. Thus my mother would also do the Hammer. We did not chant any, "Go Nan-cys". We simply laughed hysterically. I remember it being one of the funniest things from childhood. I would beg, "Mom, pleeeeeease do the Hammer!" And she would. And I would be in stitches. It was the dreadful confirmation that I needed . . . I just might not be as cool as I hope to be.
But I will always have the curse and blessing of The Breast.
Every new mother must have moments . . . I have weeks. I have two babies. I have a panic disorder. I have an incredible support system . . . or else I would have a straight-jacket.
When mothering, I can't help but to think about my own mother. I will be the first to admit that I am incredibly selfish and therefore forget that there are other people coexisting in the same realm of time and space as myself. And they have lives and stories and families of their own. Alas, every once in a while I'll have one of Oprah's "a-hah" moments. I remember that regardless of my age, my mother is still a mother. She is still mothering me.
Last Friday, in the heart of a nervous break down, I was crying, "I can't change anything! I'm stuck here! I can't leave this situation! I, ultimately alone, am responsible for these babies! Forever! I am the last stop for these crying, hungry, sleepy things! I have the breast! I HAVE THE BREAST!" Later that day, after my mother released me into the wild of Southpark Mall, it occurred to me that NO, it would never change. NEVER. Because I am twenty-seven years old. And my mother is at my house, watching my children, because I was crying. She alone has the proverbial breast that soothes me.
Women always talk about how they went through periods of hating their mothers-- usually as teenagers. I never felt that way about my mother (the same is true for husbands . . .). So I often don't identify with the relationships between mothers and daughters. Does this mean that I might possess a gene that will enable my girls to not just love me, but actually like me during that miserable period between puberty and adulthood? When sweet baby girls transform into self-pitying, self-righteous, self-consumed mental-cases? I am nothing like my mother. My children probably already hate me.
While visiting Brevard last month, I was singing to Zadie with a friend of mine. This friend just happens to be a first-grader. She wanted to sing the Alphabet Song (better known as My ABC's) to the baby and I have to admit that I'm a bit too cool for that. My babies might not recognize a lullaby for being cooed and rocked by Radiohead and MIA. I showed my first-grade buddy how to sashay her shoulders and sing "jazzy". Not missing a beat, My ABC's never sounded so sexy. Later she was telling her mom about Sexy Lullaby Time. Her mother started a rendition of what a jazzed up My ABC's would sound like. The girl sighed. So disappointed. Her mom just wasn't as cool as me. During glorious "adult time" that night, we were discussing this misfortune and the father said, "I always thought I would be the coolest person to my kids. But I'm not at all. Everyone else is cooler than me."
This hit me so hard.
Does this mean that I won't be the coolest person to my own children?? I have banked on this and worked SO HARD. One day they will worship me for never putting bridal garters around their heads or dressing them like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Right?
Then an image popped into my head: at the height of Hammertime . . . my mother dancing The Hammer.
My evil redheaded brother would give me positive attention when I did The Hammer. Think of the bully on A Christmas Story: that's my brother Josh. I'm sure he would deny ever having been nice to me as a child, but I swear to it: when I would do the MC Hammer dance he would chant, "Go Jo-y, go Jo-y, go, go, go Jo-y." So I never stop doing it. I hammered in place. I hammered backward. I hammered in circles. I'm pretty sure that I tried to hammer forward but that's just ridiculous. Thus my mother would also do the Hammer. We did not chant any, "Go Nan-cys". We simply laughed hysterically. I remember it being one of the funniest things from childhood. I would beg, "Mom, pleeeeeease do the Hammer!" And she would. And I would be in stitches. It was the dreadful confirmation that I needed . . . I just might not be as cool as I hope to be.
But I will always have the curse and blessing of The Breast.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
SNAPS june 10, 2009
i can't believe today was a good day . . .
The new rug that inspired us to lift our sleepy heads.
The two hearts that beat within me.
The bug I found on my bed this afternoon.
The bath time that is postponed to play with Daddy.
The dusk that takes our perfect day.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
SNAPS june 9, 2009
There is a baby under those blankets.I am teaching Zadie to need as many "comforts" as I require when sleeping. Both girls have learned how to pluck that nasty paci from their mouths with . . . THEIR HANDS. This has given them a tremendous edge in the paci war and since I can't sever their hands off, I've had to strategize. I fight back with blankets. Their weakness: they can't resist cuddling. I twist large receiving blankets and place them under each arm. HAAAAAAA . . . and now they can not reach the paci!!!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! I have won this battle!!!
The silky bear, however, is because Mommy loves Zadie Blue.
The silky bear, however, is because Mommy loves Zadie Blue.
SNAPS june 7, 2009
You might be a redneck if: you ride in the back of a pick-up truck with your four-month-old babies (or if you tell "You Might Be a Redneck If" jokes).
Finn-star was voted "best smile" in day care.
Daddy's not very familiar with this type of bar.SNAPS june 6, 2009
We came here to do two things: drink beer and kick some ass . . . looks like we're almost out of beer.
Ahhhhhhh . . . fresh mountain air on our naked bodies.If we were given everything we wanted in life, my family would be living at a higher elevation near a ball-squelching swimming hole. In the woods. In a cabin that has a giant stone fireplace. It would always be cool enough to need the fireplace in the evenings but warm enough to swim in the afternoons. When returning home from swimming their would be a !!!!SURPRISE!!!! package at my door from etsy.com. Just waiting for me. Beer would be healthier than blueberries and always in my fridge. Angelina Jolie would be our pet and she would curl up at the foot of our Giant-Triple-King-Size bed. And I would have forty-seven pillows with their own cooling systems to cuddle with.
Alas, this is not my life . . . but our very special, most awesomey awesomest friends, The HOseys, have a very similar life. We get to visit and partake in their fresh air and stone fireplace. And even though Angelina doesn't sleep at the foot of our bed we are allowed to pet her before she retires to the master suite.
We spent the past weekend with The HOseys. We crashed their four-year-friend's birthday party. We ate their food. We swam in their lake. We drank their beer. We ignored their dogs. We swatted their mosquitoes. We (I alone, to be perfectly honest) threw down on their dance floor while watching their cable.
It was nice to live in another family's world for a weekend.
Alas, this is not my life . . . but our very special, most awesomey awesomest friends, The HOseys, have a very similar life. We get to visit and partake in their fresh air and stone fireplace. And even though Angelina doesn't sleep at the foot of our bed we are allowed to pet her before she retires to the master suite.
We spent the past weekend with The HOseys. We crashed their four-year-friend's birthday party. We ate their food. We swam in their lake. We drank their beer. We ignored their dogs. We swatted their mosquitoes. We (I alone, to be perfectly honest) threw down on their dance floor while watching their cable.
It was nice to live in another family's world for a weekend.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
SNAPS june 5, 2009
Quite possibly the most beautiful photograph I've ever taken.Zadie is holding on for life during a "photo-shoot". I made lots of clothes to sell on ETSY.com before I had two infants to consume my time. I was hoping to get some shots to post in my ETSY store before the girls grew out of all of the clothes I'd made. I have a feeling this is just the beginning of your modeling career Zadie . . . regardless of how tight you squeeze your sister's arm.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
SNAPS june 4, 2009
The girls have taken an extreme liking to hanging out at Gee Gee's (even IF Gee Gee doesn't like Lydia's dress).
This is the first thing that was bought for the girls. I came home from work when I was eight weeks preggo and Brandon had two packages wrapped for me to open. This was in one of them. We didn't even know that we needed two packages yet.
If Lydia were any cuter she would probably eat herself.
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