My peeps
My friend Karen, goddess of wisdom and insight, once told me that cohabiting with toddlers is like being pecked to death by baby chicks.
With that graphic image ever in mind, here's a list, incomplete and in no particular order, of how the little peckers are conspiring to send me to the funny farm today:
- Repeatedly opening and slamming the refrigerator doors because they like the "thunk" sound that's made. Also, occasionally deciding that gourmet mustards and sticky jars of jam might look nice stacked in a tower in the front room.
- Dashing to the CD player, as I'm restocking the fridge, and turning it on and off, on and off, on and off, to watch the tired old CD carousel open, grind a half-turn, then stop. Special treat: extracting errant CDs that become stuck in the process and flinging them like Frisbees. Now my Saturday Night Fever soundtrack is irreversibly scratched. UNforgivable.
- Washing their hands obsessively. Using a half-bottle of foamy soap and no water, because the handle is just out of reach. Then pretending the foam, now up to one's elbows, might serve one well as a hair mousse. Yes! A lovely new 'do. (Until, ow! It drips into one's eyes. Then: stinging and burning.)
- Locking themselves in the pantry. Sometimes, to clear the shelves and trample the recycling bin. Sometimes, to stand very quietly and not even giggle while I search the house for them, calling, "Spencer? Katie? Spencer? Katie?" in an increasingly panicked voice.
- Repeating every. single. word. I say. And not quite in unison, so it's like having a really bad echo that echoes. When I get so irritated that I quit talking altogether, Spencer does a dead-on mimic of the little noises I make in lieu of curse words. Like "grrrr" and "whew" and "Jesus, give me strength."
- Stripping off their shoes and socks precisely ninety seconds before we reach our destination. When I implore them to stop, stop, please, please stop? They cackle and strip faster.
Sweet yellow, fuzzy chicks. With serrated steel beaks. Sigh.
P.S. At this rate, here's me in the very near future. Want more sassy chicks? Happy to oblige.
With that graphic image ever in mind, here's a list, incomplete and in no particular order, of how the little peckers are conspiring to send me to the funny farm today:
- Repeatedly opening and slamming the refrigerator doors because they like the "thunk" sound that's made. Also, occasionally deciding that gourmet mustards and sticky jars of jam might look nice stacked in a tower in the front room.
- Dashing to the CD player, as I'm restocking the fridge, and turning it on and off, on and off, on and off, to watch the tired old CD carousel open, grind a half-turn, then stop. Special treat: extracting errant CDs that become stuck in the process and flinging them like Frisbees. Now my Saturday Night Fever soundtrack is irreversibly scratched. UNforgivable.
- Washing their hands obsessively. Using a half-bottle of foamy soap and no water, because the handle is just out of reach. Then pretending the foam, now up to one's elbows, might serve one well as a hair mousse. Yes! A lovely new 'do. (Until, ow! It drips into one's eyes. Then: stinging and burning.)
- Locking themselves in the pantry. Sometimes, to clear the shelves and trample the recycling bin. Sometimes, to stand very quietly and not even giggle while I search the house for them, calling, "Spencer? Katie? Spencer? Katie?" in an increasingly panicked voice.
- Repeating every. single. word. I say. And not quite in unison, so it's like having a really bad echo that echoes. When I get so irritated that I quit talking altogether, Spencer does a dead-on mimic of the little noises I make in lieu of curse words. Like "grrrr" and "whew" and "Jesus, give me strength."
- Stripping off their shoes and socks precisely ninety seconds before we reach our destination. When I implore them to stop, stop, please, please stop? They cackle and strip faster.
Sweet yellow, fuzzy chicks. With serrated steel beaks. Sigh.
P.S. At this rate, here's me in the very near future. Want more sassy chicks? Happy to oblige.
posted by mrsf5 at 10:17 AM
11 Comments:
I would like to say it gets better, but the cute fuzzy chicks just grow into larger and louder hens and roosters that have larger beaks and more stamina. I have actually played the game of timing and counting how long my older boys will persistently call "Mom. Mom? Mom! Mom! Mom? Mom..." instead of getting off their asses and coming to find me. I gave up after 20 minutes once.
HY-sterical. Or as Joe-Henry would say...
F%$#! That's funny!
Oh, my dear, I do feel your pain. Joe-Henry loves the door thing too. The little buggers just love to see how things work, don't they? And the button pushing. Well, they certainly know where all of our buttons are!
This too, shall pass. Then it's on to nose rings and death metal.
Margarita, anyone?
ps - the chick art is way too funny. Great find!
Dude, you've gotta show them who's boss...do i need to call them again and give them a piece of your mind? love those kids
mar
You're kidding...right? This is not a snapshot of your day. It's just not.
SA
"Locking themselves in the pantry. .....increasingly panicked voice.....
How 'bout this? “You better bring your little *sses out from wherever you are before you get it.” They don't have to know what the "it" is of which you speak, but at least the threat is there.
SA-again
can I share with you a little commentary that was made last night, in anticipation of Amy Franklin's arrival at dinner?
All six moms gathered together, sipping margaritas, and the name Franklin came up.
Eyes sparkled, and margaritas were clinked in honor of this special woman, who makes it all look so easy.
For the poor few that had yet to *meet* this vision of mommyhood, we just clapped our hands to our chests and swooned while trying to describe how amazing she is. This Franklin. She has THREE kids. Did you know that? Of course not, because she always looks so peaceful and put together, with a smile on her face that rivals the Mona Lisa.
And she came. And she did not disappoint. Again, a vision with a smile. And the girls that left last night were better for meeting her.
But I am sad for them once more...because I don't think they have access to this blog. Which they need. So they can see what really goes on behind those doors.
Because as far as I can tell, the kids are always dressed. Katie's hair is always held back with something fashionable and girlie, and Spencer is (I will give her this) usually running in the opposite direction.
*sigh*
I love this blog.
Me again....
I love my nerve commenting on the FranklinTwinsAntics, when last night as I was walking up the stairs, Aliyah noticed I was moving out of her right blind spot and before I could put toes to step, SHE WAS STANDING ON THE BACK OF MY SLIPPERS trying to follow me. I almost fell flat on my face. I yelped, "Damn, Aliyah!" And just cracked up. I mean what can you do?
Me again...I love my sister MaryRobin "you gotta show them who's boss" Oh MaryRobin, you are so cute.
Okay I had to come out of lurkdom for this one. I am a friend of Weintraub's and occassionally peek on your blog to see how another mom of twins survives. I was LOL at your post today because I can SO relate. My twins are almost 2 1/2 and boy do they drive me crazy! The shoe thing MUST be an initiation into Twindom or something b/c my girls have this down pat!!! Hang in there sister, I feel your pain. :)
Remember how you weren't sure you wanted to have kids? That WAS you, wasn't it? Hard to remember now. Yet it is a role you were clearly meant to play.
p.s. Minivan!
i am hearing the EXACT same thing in my house this VERY minute. loving that you've captured online. like someone very wise (CVS employee who didn't know me from adam) once said, "it's like living with a parrot or a broken record." ahhh...the joys of toddlerhood. you're the best, franklin.
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