1 a : a painful emotion caused by consciousness of guilt, shortcoming, or impropriety b : the susceptibility to such emotion

I have lots of twin-mom friends.

There's @diagnosisurine, @iammommymae, @aprilpurinton, @manhattanspeak, @nanobuck and @dianasaurus. @twinhappyjen sends me a Happy Twin Tuesday message once a week (and then I think I'm supposed to play a game with her and other twin parents? i think?). Oh! How could I forget about @thebloggess? (and how much SHE LOVES ME--- oh, dear friends, I think I will write that in every post forever and ever. Oh yeh, I'd forgotten to also mention: I almost died. Which technically makes it okay to include The Bloggess in the mother-of-twins category). See, lots of friends that are counting the hours and popping their pills. just. like. me.

The problem with these friends (though they are especially fabulous women-- at least I think that they are women) is that they live in New England. Or New York. Or Houston, Texas. Places not conducive to drinking margaritas before noon/ playdates with our family.

Hell froze over people.

I joined a club.

A Moms of Multiples Club.

And in less than one week as a member of district 10, chapter 73, I have already shamed my family. For the sake of a bad joke. Okay, bad "half" joke/"half" truth.

Last night I was on the "let's meet at Panera's" forum with the PostPartum Depression sect of the club and the day before our group meeting, I attempted a change of venue.


Me: does panera serve alcohol? no, i'm completely serious. it's hard for me to leave the house if i can't also be drinking while i'm gone. no, i am not alcoholic (okay, maybe a little), i am a mother of twins. should i bring a flask?

Response: It doesn't but we thought we would meet to talk and then go to another location with alcohol. We need to make sure that when people share their personal experiences that they do it without liquid help!!!!


Uh-oh. I was misinterpreted again. I wanted to explain myself.

Repost: I'm sorry, I was just trying to be funny. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. This is who I am.

And then I decided that I would just go on and on about how depressed I am, and then I would fit right in again. They can't stay mad at me while I'm in need of help, right?

Brandon said that maybe some other people are taking the group a little more seriously than I am. My response to that? I just think that alcohol makes things more fun. Even depression.

In other shameful news:

Sunday's post regarding shit I write about while menstruating received a much unexpected response.


Have I mentioned that Jenny loves me? That Rebecca Woolf is my best friend? Just more proof of my recent coming to fame.

Let me start by saying that my mother is the epitome of respectfulness and the goodness that Christ intended. Things that I am not. There is a label on this blog called my mother will cringe because that's just what I imagine her doing as she reads my posts. We have a different humor and a much different need for tact. She doesn't always know what I am talking about and that is a testimony to her beauty and goodness. My mother doesn't understand how Jenny's love has made me famous, so she linked up to The Bloggess to find Monday's post which featured this photograph:


My mother proceeds to read about Jenny's confusion in thinking that this was a picture of a baby being impaled by a penis.

I can only apologize to my mother.

I can not stop laughing.

Since shame seems to be the topic of the day:



I must say that nothing in my mothering career has been more shameful than holding my Lil Weezie and giving her breathing treatments. The doctor's office was kind enough to give the girls upper respiratory death for their birthday.

The terror is that I have to hold this medicinal-mist-blowing-mask over Zadie's face for seventeen hours a day BUT THE UPSIDE for Zadie is that she gets to hold my cell phone while getting treatment. This has turned into quite the social connection with myself and various people who swear not to know me and forbade me to ever call them again.

This morning, after finishing treatment, Zadie pulled the mask back to her face. Then Lydia came up and held the mask over her mouth. Just twelve months old last week and the cell phone has already poisoned their brains.

The shame of it all.