It's raining, it's pouring....

Instead of looking for the perfect wicker snack basket, I am now looking for an ark. Preferably used, with low mileage, and able to house no more than my family of 5 and 2 dogs. I have had enough of my neighbors and I would like to gracefully say "No, I'm sorry, no more room!" with a big grin and a straight face.

No, seriously, it has rained for three straight days, with no visible end in sight. "Well, I won't have to water the grass for at least two weeks!" the Pollyannas say. Well screw you, Polly, I'm stuck here with three obnoxious adorable children, and I've had enough. I'm beginning to invent tasks (like knitting something) in order to avoid the obvious ones that are staring at me, like laundry and actual housework.

I have, however, surfed blog after blog, which I highly recommend - just pick a link and wander, it's amazing what you'll find. I've found crafts I wished I had made, people on the verge of getting an adoption referral, old friends that I thought I had lost, and things I didn't know I wanted and now will be mercilessly trolling eBay for. (Seriously, I need that pie carrier. Imagine the envy of the other t-ball moms!)

Now to surf to find the way that the old man actually slept well enough during a thunderstorm to snore - anyone have a good link for an overnight nanny service?

Let the games begin...

While driving somewhere yesterday, we see a girl on a motorcycle with a long braid - F points it out to me.

F: "Mom, look, there's a girl on that motorcycle!"

Mom, sensing a parenting moment that shouldn't be missed: "Yes, F, girls can do anything. That's a really cool motorcycle, isn't it."

F, smirk on his face: "Mom, girls are pretty."

So much for the parenting moment - let the dating begin.

So.

So.

Things have been a little crazy over here - the end of school, the beginning of summer camp, the end of t-ball, the beginning of swimming lessons - we're pretty much in a merry-go-round of activity over here, and I want to get off. Now. Because, well, summer is for relaxing, I hear, and all I keep doing is getting in the car. And packing tote bags. And getting out again. Someone less organizationally-challenged than I will tell you that I should have a tote bag for each activity so that I can skip the packing step, but that is also likely the mother that has the wicker snack tray for t-ball (no, seriously, she does) and I can't stand her. So I pack the bag each time we go. It kills the time between "Get your shoes on" and "Get. Your. Shoes. On. Before. I. Call. Your. Father. To. Scream. Even. Louder. BecauseHeWill."

So I haven't had a lot of mom time this summer, yet, but I did have enough time to read this and wow, are mommas everywhere ticked off. As a working mom myself, I get some of what she's saying, but I'm not so sure why she's surprised that the stay at home moms are angry with her - they give me crap, and I live next door. How much easier is it to send a nasty-gram email to someone you've never met?

I work for a lot of reasons, and while the money is nice, it is mainly for my sanity. And my children's sanity. Because although I am not many of the things Linda professes that working moms are, I do have a need to see people I'm not related to on a regular basis, and to have the house quiet for a few minutes. And I will do almost anything to get those things for myself. I've even bought a GameCube to ensure my 10 minutes of quiet at the end of the day. There, my dirty secret is out.

But what I don't get, honestly, is why some of the stay-at-home moms think that all working moms don't value that work that a stay-at-home mom does. Dude, I get it. I know that work is often easier, if less fulfilling. But I can't do it and be content with myself. And it's not an intellectual thing, it's a sanity thing, pure and simple. And I'm tired of the moms who choose to stay home making me feel bad about protecting my mental health while bringing in some fun money at the same time.

It's not a competition, so why do we have to continuously try to outdo each other? Put down the wicker snack basket. You're making us feel bad, and does it really make you feel that much better?

Snipe Hunting

Over the past several years, I have read the sporting stories about out of control parents harassing their children, harassing the other children, harassing spectating children - harassing basically anyone under 4 feet tall holding a juice box. And I smugly said to myself that I was better than that. I was not one of those parents.

Apparently, I was wrong, and I would like my crow grilled with a side salad, thank you very much.

We spent Sunday at a tae kwon do competition for K, who loves these things. Honestly, it's like watching 82 instructors herding 624 cats around a gym, but she loves them, so I pay my entry fee, admission for the rest of us, and we go so that she can compete. She's a green stripe now, which basically means that we've paid $4 million in testing fees she's in the advanced group now, and competition gets a bit stiffer. These girls don't play around any more, they've earned a few trophies, and they like it.

There are three parts of the competition - form, board breaking and contact sparring. If you're new to martial arts, form is basically the dance-off, and the other two are basically what they sound like, particularly the contact part. Form went off without a hitch, one trophy earned, two to go. Board breaking wasn't a total loss, and she broke one of the two, second trophy in hand.

And then we get to the sparring. Now, the entire 427 2 hours, K sat with her 4 other competitors, all girls 7&8, all green belts, blond ponytails o'plenty. They giggled, clearly gossiped about the competition, and basically acted like 8 year old girls. I go to the floor to adjust K's sparring chest pads, which are not unlike the Michelin Man ensemble, and the other girls are talking smack to my girl.

"You know, we just love to spar. My kicks are the best in class."

"K says she really just doesn't want to spar S, she's dangerous."

"She's just scared because she's so much smaller than we all are."

Now. To be fair, K was easily 6" shorter than the crowd. It's a place we're pretty familiar with, being that she's often mistaken for a triplet with my 5 year olds. It's not like they had to look far for material or anything.

And apparently, this "women are bitches to each other" starts in grade school and does not allow a grown woman to stop herself, even when talking to a snarky 8 year old with better hair. Without a thought in my head, I answered truthfully & all mom-like, "All four of you are going to do fine. And K won last time, so she'll be just fine."

Whoops. Apparently, that second bit? It was out loud. I am that parent. And I didn't even realize it, since the girlfriend code had kicked in, and I had defended my girl. My husband, on the other hand, suggested I take a walk around the parking lot and that perhaps I was taking this too seriously.

It definitely brings up the bigger question for me about why women can't just be supportive, even at a young age, and what we're teaching our girls. K and I talked about standing up for ourselves, and that perhaps Momma got a little over-protective of her Princessa. K admitted that she was happy I put an end to it, which is all I wanted, and that she needs to tell people that she's sick of being picked on instead of just sitting there and taking it. We came up with some choice comebacks for short jokes, all of which were her ideas, not mine, I promise.

And I will apparently be entering "sports parent snark management" sessions, as dictated by my loving husband.

Oh, the sparring results? She pretty much got her ass handed to her by the "dangerous" girl. Anyone have any barbecue sauce? I hear it's great with crow.

Brunch for three, table by the window, please

Do you think Child Services comes if your children ask for a SeaBreeze for a breakfast drink? And when you answer in confusion that you don't have SeaBreeze juice, they correct you and are able instruct you to make it with the "red berry and the orange juice, momma. Top shelf."

Apparently this "how bad can it be" thing can be taken too far. And their father and I need to discuss what happened when I went camping this weekend and he was in charge...

Not so funky fresh....

I'm in a funk. There. I've said it. A deep dark blue capital "F" funk. Which hopefully will explain my silence. Even if it doesn't, I'm funky, and not in a good way. Be warned.

I know it's Spring, and the fog should be lifting, and that if I waste Spring in a funk, it will soon be Summer, which puts me back in the funk because it's freakishly hot and I must remain lily white or risk more surgery, which my sweet husband has deemed I've reached my limit on.

But Spring also brings tax time, which I have tried to be cheery about, but it's the first year we've actually owed money, and when the Ms do something we do it big, and owe the GNP of some developing nations. Funkalicious.

I know that school is still in session, which should give me time to relax, but I'm funky because I have to figure out what to do with the summer, and these stay-at-home mothers are taking all of my spots in the good camps because they are maniacal organized, and I'm not.

And worst of all, do you realize that people actually finish a craft project? And have time to have their adorable children model it, and take fabulous photographs with witty blog entries? Seriously. I should take inspiration from these folks, but I'm not. I am, however, using them as excuse to shop for supplies, which I'll soon stack on top of the other unused supplies use for the project. And maybe finish it. And maybe be able to find the top of my desk afterwards. So there. Maybe the project will even be an interpretive piece on my funk. Double so there.

I think that the worst of it is because my neighborhood mom-friends are sailing through things like stomach flu and mumps rumors, report cards and kindergarten registration like it's a cake walk. Meanwhile, I'm making decisions for the boys based on the phrase "How bad could it be?" Anyone find the parenting book that endorses that one? Is it just the working moms who say these things? Because let me tell you, this is not something I've heard on the playground.

"How bad could it be?"

"We're just going to throw them in and see what happens."

"What the hell, we already have a therapist for one of them anyway, and I bet he'll take on the rest of them."

The teachers have said that W & F could benefit from an additional year of preschool. They are academically ready, but... They're Boys.

Seriously? Your rationale is based on the fact that they are boys. Sure am glad I took a day off from work for you to attend that enrichment training. Seriously.

Because the boys' birthday is in March, they're in that gray area of hold back. Summer moms get the luxury of the guilt-free decision. "Oh, she has a summer birthday," the other moms agree. "Definitely hold her. You'll be so happy."

But us? No knowing agreement here. We get the "Oh" commentary, with the expression your mother makes when you tell her you're moving in with the boy prior to marriage. "But they seem so.... Smart. But you know, boys are like that."

So I've had angst, and funk, and some wine, and more angst. And at the end of the day, we're going to throw them in. The classes are small, and I have to make some sort of decision, because they have to order books, you know, and registration was, like, 5 years ago. And never in a million years did I think that my parenting was going to be based on "how bad it could be", but there you are. Standing in the middle of the road, waiting for the truck to flatten you while you agonize over the decision. And in addition to the college fund, we'll be saving for the therapy our decision will ultimately cause. Maybe for us, maybe for them.

How bad could it be?

Independence Day

So yesterday, my boys were 5. 5! How did these little bundles of baby turn FIVE?

Now. While this post should be sweet and full of my love for my boys, it will turn inevitably to one about me, so let's spare you the sap and get right down to it.

I had to buy my two boy children completely different gifts. And I was completely and utterly traumatized.

Now, those of you with singletons are likely staring at the screen thinking that I have finally lost my mind. And I may have, but that would be an entirely separate matter. Even moms of boy/girl twins likely think I'm a loon, since this is something they have dealt with all along.

But I'm hoping that some of you with same-sex twins understand my plight - they are completely separate children. When the hell did that happen?

Most people I know with twins spend a crazy amount of time ensuring that things are fair and balanced. My poor husband couldn't even stomach the idea of the boys having different mobiles over their cribs - what if one of them got into Yale, and other couldn't even get into community college... And it was because of the mobile?

Twin moms everywhere have lengthy conversations about what to call their twins. "The twins?" Definitely not, we all say, they are separate people, not a unit. But at the end of the day, I was in a pretty good groove of buying two of everything boy, and if it wasn't the exact same thing, it was a close relative. One gets Spiderman, the other gets Batman. Done.

But this year? This year, they throw me. After his epiphany (and much pushing and yelling), W wanted a scooter. So a scooter it was. But no amount of creative suggestion could sway F from his chosen prize - a Fantastic Four skateboard. "A fast one!" he crowed. W also couldn't be swayed, and Lord knows I tried.

So last night, the boys received their bounty - a Fantastic Four skateboard for one, and a blue scooter for the other. They are thrilled, my husband and I, perplexed.

When on earth did these toddlers turn into people with opinions? And different ones, at that? We knew they had opposite temperaments, but they seemed to do things in waves. W walked first, F three weeks later. F showed his teacher his penis, W pulls his pants down in class 6 months later. But this, for some reason, was completely unexpected. (Not as unexpected as the dual pantsing, but I digress.)

Try as I might to remember that they are indeed separate individuals, I too was lumping them into a group for ease of use. I grab two of everything, from shirts to toys. They are "my boys", not W & F. Yet apparently, 5 brings independence, not only from me, but from each other, which is interesting and sad all at the same time.

So the science experiment at our house continues while I adjust my shopping habits. And if W doesn't get into Yale, blame the scooter.

Other Voices, other tunes

I had the luxury this weekend of getting a vacation from my family - spending the weekend at a scrapbooking retreat, with a group of new friends. The scrapbooking was great, the laughter loud, the reminiscing a bit teary. And then we started talking about church.

Now before I start this, I will say this about my new friends. They are lovely. "Lovely" isn't a word I use all that often - it feels contrived. But lovely they were, generous and kind to the new girl and her friend. I genuinely enjoyed their company, and can't wait to do it again.

I spent two full days with them - shared pictures of our children, tales of our husbands, discovered that we all used the same OB to deliver. I have seen almost all of them in pajamas. But then, the specter of the really and truly faithful loomed around the table. These women are religious with a capital R, and honestly, in all of the best ways. They are honest about their faith, not pushy, not judgmental. Their faith is the foundation of their lives and families, and they truly care about each other, and those around them. And if they are lovely, and caring, and kind... Why do my defenses go up when they start sharing their faith with me?

I would like to think I am quietly faithful. I'm a big fan of God, even if he did not deliver me from twin toddler Hell as quickly as I asked. (To be fair, if I had gotten that screeching request full of expletives, I might not have honored it either.) I like the idea that something bigger than my tiny self exists and is steering me a bit, even if I insist on turning the wrong way.

When G and I got married, I railed against a church that I felt was "closed." The priest that helped perform the ceremony explained that it was like being invited over for dinner. You're welcome to come and share the meal,he said, but not go back into the kitchen and help make dessert. As I drove home yesterday, I found myself thinking of this - how is it that I can rail against something because I think it is closed, and then not be open to the idea of a different way to celebrate my faith?

I admire these women. They really and truly believe that God will take care of them, those they love, and those for whom they petition. They are good models of what I think faithful women can become. The women, my new friends, are open to others. They didn't care that I practiced a different way, or admitted that I sometimes didn't feel comfortable in a church with contemporary music. Their hearts and minds are open.

At the end of the day, the problem lies within. In my mind, I just can't let go. I try, albeit half-heartedly. I ask for help, but don't believe it will come. I try and attend a mass, but then drift off making mental grocery lists during the service. I will try and read a faith-based book, but put it down as soon as I think it is "too preachy", or "not my style." At the end of the day, I am intimidated by their honesty and willingness to listen to another voice.

I write this not to start a debate, although it might, and it might be an interesting one. I write this to start a process of being more honest, mainly with myself. I can't continue to be cafe religious, only taking the things that suit me, and leaving the brussel sprouts behind. In doing that, I think I am becoming the type of person that really and truly bugs me - the ones that are professedly faithful, yet judge and berate those who choose a different path.

So here goes. Where this leads me, I'm not really sure. But I guess that's part of the point, right?

As promised...

In my last post I promised more W stories, so here's this week's installment in the Life of W. (There are actually several new proud F&K stories, but those can wait.)

While W is my sweet and caring child, he is not, shall we say, an athlete. Which is odd, since he is the splitting image of his father, who was an athlete with a capital A. At the end of the day, W is my child. Which, while could land him a college scholarship, is unfortunate as a male child in the M household.

It is kind to say that we (W & I) are not coordinated. In any fashion. We are fortunate to get through the day with only bruises that we remember getting, since we often run into things and just don't notice. In a shock to only my husband, I was essentially kicked off my childhood softball team by being placed in the far left outfield. (The shock has worn off, I promise.)

So the weather here is warmer, finally, and the neighborhood is out and about, driveways covered in chalk and bike helmets. W is thrilled at the chalk. Draws me lots of pictures, writes his name, even tries his "opposite" hand in my effort to make the OT happy. And then, the bikes are brought out.

"You know, Mom, I like to walk and hold your hand."
"Don't you want to try your bike? Just to the next driveway?"
"You know, Mom, the weather is lovely. Martha said the weather is good for walking."

Hmmm.

This is all fine and well, I don't like riding bikes either, but I was left with fairly stern instructions by G. "Get W on his bike today. All he has to do is ride 2 driveways and I will be happy. He will do this by Spring if it kills us."

Hmmm.

Now, I must stop and confess that I am not a "pusher." If he doesn't want to do it, fine. It is not a battle I am willing to fight. But as the lone not-quite-5-year-old on the block who flatly refuses his bike, G has dictated that it is time. The bike must be ridden, or we, the M family of Northern VA will be entered into the Hall of Shame of playground parents.

Hmmm.

After much cajoling, wheedling, and bribes of the promise of Girl Scout cookies, the bike is out of the garage. And in no time flat, offered to F, who takes off like a speed demon. Not what I had hoped for.

And this is how G finds us as he pulls in. Me with a book in the lawn chair, F whizzing by on the bike, K on her scooter, and W drawing flowers. Not what he had hoped for.

I now interrupt this idyllic scene to insert the pushing. G pushes W, who then throws a bit of a fit, which ends... With W on a 2 wheel scooter, no helmet, going three driveways.

This is what I was hoping for.

Too good to be told

I laugh at things. A lot. Perhaps more than I should, and these things are often at my children's expense.

I tell stories. A lot of them. Mostly to hide my own fear of how badly I've screwed my kids up, or to illustrate that yes, I do realize how ill-behaved my sweet boy appears to, well, most everyone. A funny story hides a million sins.

But what I've noticed lately, is that W is getting shafted. His brother F has stories and colorful nicknames. (The "toilet plugger", for one) His sister K has sweet stories and glowing reports of her royal achievements. (Did you know she's reading on a 6th grade level?) Even their father has some stories.

But W? Nada. Nothing. Shafted.

It's not that he's not interesting, really. He is a delight, I swear. And funny to beat the band, when he's in a goofy mood, which is often. But as the quiet twin, he often gets overlooked for his oddball brother, who can be infinitely more attention-getting, and not always in a good way.

W has a new habit, which is funny and endearing, but perhaps a little telling as well. When he starts a story, it goes in fits and starts, something like this:

W: "Mom. Mom. Mom. Today in school we... Mom. We just tried... Mom"

I thought, at first, that perhaps his little brain just couldn't get the sentence slowed down enough to get it out. But as I sit and wonder, perhaps he's just trying to make sure I'm still listening?

I had (have?) a New Year's Resolution to write things down. "You should write a book" my neighbor said, after a recounting of F's horrible day, involving the tae kwon do penalty box and some choice tantrum throwing. While those things are funny and memorable, maybe it's the W stories that I need to be sharing.

It's ok, buddy. I hear you.

Where are they now?

Where are those people you wanted to be in college? My alumni magazine arrived this week, chock full of brags, new babies, and stories of the successful - and left me feeling a bit unsatisfied with my child-rich, career-poor life. Who cares that my oldest (the Pie) can read Harry Potter at age 8 - I have yet to design a landmark building, collect art (and donate it accordingly), or invent the newest cell phone technology. All those wallflower feelings came back at me with full force - not only am I not the cool girl at the band party, but I don't even have enough cool stuff for an alumni blurb.

Medicated by Diet Coke and an Oreo (ok, 6), I set off to find the people I most wanted to be in college. The cool, the smart, the witty. What on earth happened to that writer guy, the research scientist, the brilliant geek, and the girl with the stories that always one-upped the rest of us? Well, my friends, google is a wonderful thing - there they all were, in full color.

The writer guy? On early tenure track, with a new book, and a gazillion articles. Still cool? Yep.

The research scientist who would save the world? Finished her PhD, still writing articles, and doing research that could potentially save the next generation from STDs. Really cool.

The brilliant geek? Doing something unexplainable for information security - thank him the next time you don't get a virus from email. Really, really cool. Especially because of the virus thing.

The one-up girl I couldn't find much on - she's apparently just running a chess camp for the needy. Slacker by comparison, but still cool.

As I drowned my sorrows in more Diet Coke, the Pie came to me with a project idea for our Brownie troop. It was a good one, involved serious amounts of glue, beads, & glitter, which never would be allowed in sane peoples' houses. As I agreed to allow the girls to drown themselves in enough Elmer's and glitter to be mistaken for Vegas showgirls, she threw her arms around me - "You're the best mom ever. Really. "

I am so cool.