Posts tagged as:

multiples

Saving the day in a kitchen near you

by Myg on October 12, 2011

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Someone please explain to me exactly how I’m supposed to function with this kind of awesome under foot every day?

So much is new it’s hard to keep track of it all. They are now 2 years and closing in on 9 months old. They started preschool half days in September and have had runny noses pretty much constantly ever since they started, but it doesn’t seem to slow them down much.

They now say things like, “This is my family!” and “See you next later everybody!” and “It’s okay, Mom,” (usually when I am flailing because we are late for school or I am out of coffee or someone has dumped their milk and Cheerios all over the kitchen floor for the third time this morning). They go to school and if one of them is feeling shy, you can be fairly confident his brother will take him by the hand and say, “Come on, let’s play.”  And it’s hard not to get all teary eyed when you see it because that’s what you want with twins, that they have each other’s backs.

All that said, they are not even remotely interested in using a toilet for its intended purpose. I’m back and forth over whether to encourage them more or to let them take it at their own pace. It’d be real nice to be done with diapers, not gonna lie, but there’s also part of me that thinks they grow up fast enough. Why pressure them to move even faster? So for now we’re just letting them be, and waving big boy under pants around every so often saying, aren’t these cool? To mild interest, at best.

This child development stuff happens so subtly, feels like it’s hidden in the context of all this working and going to school and running around and not sleeping enough so that you hardly seem to notice most of the time. Then one day you look over and two superheroes are clamoring for the prime spot in the photo op. And that’s when you see it, right? That’s that epic expanse of life experience crammed into the few years we call childhood, right there, blinking its big ole’ candied eyes at you, all those memories you keep with you your whole life and pull out when you need to feel safe and loved and hopeful about the world being a magical, good place after all. It’s right here, in the kitchen in its new superhero costume waving and smiling and saying, Hey! Isn’t this awesome?

Yes. Yes it is.

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Risen

by Myg on April 4, 2010

The real reason I’m posting this today is because she, my late step-sister and the “you” of “hey you” in my last blog post, would fucking hate that last post, would hate that it’s been at the top of my blog for over two weeks. She wasn’t dark and dreary like me. She was sunlight and hope and perseverance and a whole host of other sparkly and wonderful things that I miss like hell and will forever miss like hell. So I’m writing something, maybe a little less inspired since there was a painful dearth of sugar consumption today, given the day. Not nearly enough black jelly beans or peanut butter chocolate eggs.

I think the big news here is that my boys wore ties! They looked like little prep school applicants or mini bankers, but holy risen son of of a Christian God were they cute.

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They still don’t walk. They are 14 and a half months old, and I’m just beginning to think, huh, does it matter yet? When will it start to matter? It’s not like I want to rip my hair out chasing two toddling boys in different directions, but it’s got to happen at some point. And the whole not walking business does make Easter egg hunting a bit more of a chore, though they scored pretty well anyway.

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Sometimes I’m amazed at the tenacity of time. Humbled by it, even.

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Movers, shakers.

by Myg on January 6, 2010

Sit STILL!

Do you know how many drafts of unfinished blog posts I have sitting in my wordpress dash? Three hundred fourty eleven. Truth be told, I don’t even know, but it’s a lot.  I’ve had a lot to say, but as yet have been unable to say it. Therefore, a bullets post.

  • Dude, you have no idea how busy I’ve been, what with the show, the holidays, a crazy amount of work to finish by year’s end and all that parenting stuff. You probably do know, but you may not know what an added layer of insanity the show was. I’m talking about being up every night until 1am or so practicing my guitar through headphones so I could possibly not suck after not playing for so long. The sleep deprivation reminded me of how much I need sleep to not just be an asshole to everyone. Up until 1am is not so bad until you remember your kids are up at 7am every day, NO MATTER WHAT, unless it’s today and they’re up at 6 for no god damned reason. And I know – we are lucky that our kids sleep like this. The question is, are we stupid for playing a show when we have no time to play our guitars?
  • Stupid or not, here we come.
  • I don’t know what that means in terms of us playing future shows. Don’t read into it.
  • Do you see that picture above? Those monsters are my sons, Doot and Bing. They will be a year old on the 22nd of this month. I cringe when I think of it. They are SO BIG (\0/). 
  • Every day I whisper quietly into their soft hair, “Can you stay my baby just a little while longer? Please?” I try not to say it audibly most of the time because I don’t want them to grow up with a complex. I don’t *really* want a 35 year old Doot and/or Bing living with me or off me. Okay, that’s a lie. I secretly dream of having my kids live with me forever and that at least one of them will get some girl pregnant in high school so I can marvel at a grandbaby while I can still walk without a cane. I’m actually not even sure if I’m kidding about that.
  • That’s fucked up.
  • Doot has 8 teeth. Bing has 2 and a half.
  • They eat EVERYTHING. They are great eaters. Messy as shit though.
  • This post is so ”eh” right now I’m going blind.
  • Fuck it, I’m posting it anyway.

It was nice to see you again. Thanks for reading.

Oh, and a little PS bullet, that has nothing to do with this post.

  • To my friend, Ms. Snarkier Than You over at Twitarded, OH MY GOD. I’m incredulously doped up on Twilight (the book). I made Alex (Mr. Wisermom) go out and buy me New Moon last night (which I haven’t seen yet, even though some innocent yet asshatish youngster told me the ending yesterday when she saw I was reading Twilight. Doh!) because I was getting too close to the end and, ugh, how can I be sagaless? As soon as I post this, I’m closing my office door and busting out New Moon. I need some “me” time.

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Not so auld lang syne

by Myg on December 31, 2009

The Wisermom 2009 review in pictures.

January

2009 in review

February

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March

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April:

Overalls

May:

Four months.

June:

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July:

Seven Months

August:

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September:

8 months

October:

November:

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December:

Last day of the year. Doot and Bing ready to put 2009 to bed. Bring on 2010!

May all your New Years be happy.

Love,

wm

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In the path of dead dreams

by Myg on December 16, 2009

Well, you think those dreams are dead, anyway, and then one day you discover that they are very much alive in you. And you can’t say that’s good, and you can’t say it’s bad. It just IS. Like the fact that you have green eyes or a hot temper or a certain weakness for guys doing yard work.

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You thought it was over. Been there. Done that. You were Wrong. Very, very wrong.

Prosolar Mechanics, WE Fest Wilmington NC 2000

Prosolar Mechanics, WE Fest Wilmington NC 2000

It’s not over at all. But you have no idea what that means.

And that’s okay.

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And then, and then…

by Myg on November 30, 2009

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And then the next thing you know, WOOSH. They’re graduating from college and you’re out your retirement fund.

I should really be calling this post a placeholder. It’s holding the place for a lot of things I need to tell you about. Like, the fact that the boys turned 9 months old. And then, about 15 minutes after we ordered their 9 month old commemorative plates and matching cup set, they turned 10 months old. And then they had their first Thanksgiving and their first bath in the big bath tub together. And then I cried because they are too adorable and too sweet to believe and I’m still not home with them every day like I should be and I know, and you know, kindergarten is right around the corner and what then? What THEN?

I know there are women out there who are okay with being working mothers. I salute them. I’m just not one of them. Meaning, I am a working mother. In fact, I am the sole provider working mother right now. But I’m not okay with it, other than the fact that it is what is and I have to be okay, in the most general of terms.

I also have to tell you about the band. Oh lord, the band. That’d be my band, whose name shall not be mentioned here because I’m having interweb crossover identity issues. I went back into private practice a few months ago (I’m an LCSW therapist type for kids, yo) and I just do not want people I work with finding this blog. We’re playing in 26 days (crap pants here) and this is the first time we’ve played in 8 years, almost to the day.

Before I became a mom, and before I became a therapist, I was a musician. I was very serious about it. I never had the kind of financial or  commercial success I’d hoped for, but I did make all kinds of music with all sorts of fantastic people and it made my life better. And now I’m doing it again and it feels so strange and familiar and like I’m traveling back in time but yet not. Like straddling two decades when your straddler is a little out of alignment.

And that’s just the good stuff, but that’s what I’m trying to fill my head with these days. And yours too.

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Twinspeak

by Myg on October 19, 2009

Just to recap.

I haven’t been here, but then I keep telling you that and so you must know it by now, if you’ve been here and I’ve not been. The reason I haven’t been here is because at work, they now want me to work. Can you believe this shit? And at home, well, there are kids and a dog and a man and two cats, wait. Forget the cats, they suck.

The boys just started sleeping through the night a few weeks ago, but oh my god heavenly bliss! They sleep from around 8pm until anywhere between 6 and 7am, and compared to the living hell of getting up three to four times a night, we are getting sleep. We’re averaging about 6 or 7 hours a night – IN THE SAME BED – even. That’s huge.

But what else is that I’ve gotten to be sleep greedy, so right now it’s 10pm and I have to get up at 5:30am for work tomorrow (not a typical day, but sheesh, that’s early) and I should already be in bed, but I’m not, though I will be soon. As soon as I finish typing this. By the way, I was pumping for most of that paragraph. I got good, yo.

Blogging takes a backseat to sleeping. I know that’s effed up, I do know it. But that’s the way it is.

But on to the good part of this post: Doot and Bing, in heady discourse regarding the merits of breakfast and its ranking among the things we eat. Around the 1:15 mark Doot makes a startling discovery: he has a hand. It’s right there, on the end of his arm.

The Doot and Bing Show from Myg on Vimeo.

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8 months

by Myg on September 23, 2009

Eight. Months. Eight. Months. Eight. Months.

8 months

Doot (on the right) said “Da da” tonight, while lovingly combing Alex’s face with his little eight month old fingers. Yes, there were tears aplenty.

Meanwhile, Bing was hurling himself backwards on hands and  knees on the same futon where we all lay and tell stories and sing songs every night before bed. He’s about to launch. Real crawling, the kind that involves purposeful movement, is nigh.

And yes, finally, they are starting to sleep all night. Doot has slept from 8pm – 6:30 am three nights in a row. Bing is only waking up once a night, around 12:30am, for a small bottle, then sleeping the rest of the way. This is HUGE folks. But then, you know that.

My mom says they look like they’re ready to take on the world here. If I do my part, here’s hoping they will be.

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I am a great father

by Alex on July 29, 2009

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Here’s why: When I picked up my son, Bing, because he was screaming his head off like he was in the final stages of starvation, and told him, “Don’t worry, I’m going to feed you,” and then, to soothe him, held him up in front of me and made the faces and noises he loves, and he THREW UP RIGHT INTO MY OPEN MOUTH, so that I tasted baby bile and regurgitated breast milk and it spilled all down the front of my shirt, I neither reciprocated and vomited into his mouth because the little fucker deserved it, nor did I throw him across the room and shriek in revulsion because I could not “man up” and swallow. No, my first thought was, “Shit, I forgot to burp him.” Then I imagined the scene from his perspective:

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Bing’s shitty morning with the dumb giant

Okay, I’m on my back in my happy place and everything is pretty chill because I’m in a fresh diaper and wearing a clean shirt (the one with the boats on it), but something is wrong—you know that feeling? The wrong feeling? Like when someone drops your head the last inch to the mattress or you just know they’re gonna walk out of the room and leave you in the crib without your ugly doll? And then I figure out what’s causing it: the electric sun is not singing. Sing, sun, sing! I command. But there’s no response. I feel empty. I don’t cry often, but man, when the sun doesn’t sing even when you’ve got a clean diaper and a boat shirt on, you’ve run out of options. Time for the waterworks. I cry for a long, long time. Really long. Forever long. Hey, I’m crying over here? What does a guy have to do to get noticed? Service is miserable in this place. I consider crapping my pants, but that’s risky because sometimes it’s not stinky enough to create the kind of urgency I need at this juncture. Finally, my giant shows up with that obsequious smile of his—like I don’t know he was hiding out in the break room arguing politics with some douchebag on the innernuts—and transports me across the room to the comfy spot in the puffy place with the blanket. He puts the artificial boob in my mouth and I drink. Nothing like expressed breast milk to put things in perspective. I decide not to fire him. I really kind of like him. Maybe I’ll start calling him that gibberish “dadadadada” name he keeps blathering at me. Also, I’m not sure how easy giants are to come by. My other, Doot, and I have two of them, a male and a female. I know, it’s extravagant, but hey, we need them. We’ve even discussed trying to get a third. Or moving somewhere with better healthcare. I sent a letter to Nana requesting asylum in her house, but I’m afraid it may have been intercepted by one of the giants. They’re pretty wily for brutes that can’t babble properly.

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While I’m in the puffy place on the blanket, I see Doot in one of the giant swings. He spots me and the artificial boob. He is pissed. It’s in the rules that we get as much boobz as we want and, to be honest, I’m worried about his consumption. He gets pretty squirrely when he doesn’t get his drink—sucks his thumb and whines. Frankly, it’s pathetic. Milkaholism affects the whole family. Anyway, Doot is thirsty. I can practically hear his tummy tiger growling. So I knows he’s scared, because the tiger might get big and eat him if he does not get his own fake boob. He screams: “WHAeAyA AgAiAvAeA AmAeA AsAoAmAeA AoAfA AtAhAaAtA AwAhAaAtA AyAoAuA’ArAeA AdArAiAnAkAiAnAgA AIA AnAeAeAdA AiAtA AbAeAfAoArAeA AmAyA AtAuAmAmAyA AdAeAcAiAdAeAsA AtAoA AeAaAtA AmAeA!”

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In a blatant display of favoritism, the giant responds to Doot immediately. The artificial boob is yanked from my mouth the instant it is empty (and it was only a half booble) and I am shunted into the other giant swing while Doot is rescued and given his own fake boob. To think I was starting to like that giant. I’ll say “Mother, I love you best,” and present her with a rose and a sonnet before he gets one “dadadadadadadadada” out of me.

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Then, sitting in the swing—I do some of my best thinking here—it occurs to me the giant has two hands. In fact, I’m sure I recall him holding boobles for us simultaneously. I could STILL. BE. DRINKING. I start screaming. I call the giant every bad thing I can think of: taco pits, stubble face, no boobs. I scream so loud the boob giant hears and calls up from whereever she is, probably out getting her boobs refilled, to tell the dumb one to feed me. He waits until Doot passes out (pathetic) and then comes to get me. He comes over cooing and making burbling noises, eyes wide with that goofy open mouth smile. He picks me up and it makes me so mad I get ill. So I puke into his mouth and instantly I feel better.

But I’m still considering emigrating to Nana’s.

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The truth about twins

by Myg on July 24, 2009

IMG_1916It was one of those Very Shitty Days when neither baby would take a significant nap, which wasn’t the worst part, the worst part being that the longer they went without napping, the more wretched their moods became. They take after me, after all.

It got so bad today I had to just put them down in their cribs, screaming, and walk away.  I was actually getting pissed off. Like, at them. There’s little that I’ve experienced in the world that compares with the feeling of being pissed off at them, either. I mean come on. They’re babies. How do you get pissed off at babies? It’s not like they like being miserable and overtired. But today there was something about the persistent double whining, uhhnnn uhhhhnnnn ggggnnnuuuuhhh mmgggnnnuuuuhhh, lasting hours upon hours, a tide I could not with my best mommy tricks stem, getting louder and louder and, could it get louder? Oh yes! It could! Until it crescendoed all the way into desperate double wails of misery. And then the coughing, sputtering, choking on the cries. Jesus Maria and Jose already.

When I felt that anger well up inside of me I had to just walk away. Had to. Because for a second there I got desperate myself, and in that second I could glimpse into the world of a child abuser, no lie.

It scared me.

(And many thanks to those of you out there on Twitter who provided me much needed back-up in the midst of my angst; this means you @Jells, @averygoodyear, @mommyisrocknrol.)

To compound matters, their father is escaping this weekend again to work on his MFA thesis, which is due 8/3. He’s panicking about getting it all perfect, of course, while I’m panicking about being left alone with my sons for 48 hours. I feel no small amount of pathetic for that, either. Which leads me to the truth about twins.

Twins are really, really, really, really hard.

A friend of mine is the father of 22 year old boy twins and when I was pregnant he warned me that having twins would kick my ass. Ha ha, I’m sure, I said.

A few months ago I told him, I know you said it would kick my ass, but shit, this is really kicking my ass hard. I’ve been around, done a lot of things. I’ve worked in psych hospitals, crisis centers, juvenile detention, toured in a rock band. Did a lot of hardcore stuff, you know? This doesn’t come close to any of that.

He said, My dear, I was in COMBAT in Viet fucking Nam. Having twins? Harder.

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