Masters Week: Busted!

How can you not love Masters Week?!  It's the official kickoff to spring - it's azaleas and magnolias, sunshine and pollen.  (Had to throw that in since I just popped a Zyrtec to keep my throat and eyes from swelling shut.)  Girls in Lilly dresses follow around handsome boys wearing worn and stained green Masters caps, with scorecards sticking out of their back pocket.  They break for pimento cheese and egg salad sammies, and gulp down Augusta's sweetest tea in plastic Masters cups.  Attending the Masters for many is a glorious bucket list moment, which is why the story of Eddie's first trip to Augusta comes to mind each year at this time...:)

It was just about three years ago now when Eddie got the call from a buddy that he had an extra pass to the Masters.  Both of us were equally excited; L&M were only two months old and we weren't getting out of the house hardly at all, much less for a trip like that.  Of course, I was a little nervous because that meant I would be home ALONE with the girls for most of the day and night (my chest tightens just thinking about that), but nonetheless, thrilled that Eddie would get to experience a time-tested ritual and right of passage for all good ol' boys raised below the Mason-Dixon line.

Before he left the house, I reminded him to please, please not forget to bring me a souvenir.  I really wanted a pimento cheese sandwich and a mint julep, but knowing those wouldn't survive the trip, I was prepared to settle for a cute little pink cap with the tiny Masters logo on it.  Heck, if I couldn't go with him, I at least wanted a token of the experience!

I watched the tournament on TV all day, in between feeding, pumping, cleaning, feeding, pumping, cleaning.  I was jealous of the beautifully tanned and well-dressed people on the greens.  And for a second, I started to feel sorry for myself.  I hadn't showered all day, my greasy hair was matted to the top of my head and I was gently reminded that I hadn't really been out of the house since December when I was put on bedrest.  And at that point, I'm sure a screaming baby shook me out of my ugly self pity moment.

Later that night, I heard the garage door open and Eddie run up the stairs.  I was dying for some adult conversation and on pins and needles to see what kind of loot he brought home from Augusta.  He had a giant clear plastic bag with him, and it was filled to the top with a sea of green.  He was motoring through the details of the day - what he had for lunch (neither egg salad or pimento cheese...he's unAmerican in that way), who he ran into, and the golfers he followed, all the while unloading the plastic bag.  There was a polo shirt for him, and another for my dad...a row of plastic Masters cups, a green Masters hat, a patch...and then, he said he left the best for last.  He pulled out a green t-shirt (and I'm thinking, "They sell souvenir t-shirts at the Masters?"), opens it up and hands it to me. 

At the time, I couldn't tell if it was my adrenaline rushing or my blood pressure rising - or maybe both - as I focused in on the prized t-shirt he brought me from the Masters.  I was rendered speechless, waiting for him to pull out my REAL SOUVENIR because this was apparently a terribly bad joke, devised in a moment of absolute drunkenness.  Oh...and the t-shirt was a size medium, nonetheless.  Medium being my before-I-was-pregnant-gained-75 pounds-and-am-now-BREASTFEEDING YOUR TWIN DAUGHTERS t-shirt size.  I couldn't use a size medium t-shirt for an %$*&# burp cloth, let alone a t-shirt. 

The exchange of words that took place in our house that night sounded more like janxy phrases you'd see on bumper stickers:

"You went to the Masters, and ALL I GOT WAS A %$*& HOOTERS t-shirt??!!!" 

"If you get any closer to me, I'm going to SCRATCH OUT YOUR EYEBALLS!"

In that moment, I was reminded again of how greasy my hair was...how crappy I felt about myself, still carrying around much of my pregnancy weight...not showered...not tanned...not highlighted...and my husband, honest to God, thought I would want a mother effing commemorative Masters Week Hooters t-shirt.  I couldn't decide if I was more upset that he thought I'd EVER, under ANY circumstances, wear a Hooters t-shirt...or that he bought me one at a point in my life when the irony of a Hooters t-shirt on a woman nursing two babies was just too close to home.  I could see a look of terror wash over his face, like he didn't know whether I was going to have a nervous breakdown or if he should fear for his life.  And in a last ditch effort, he told me the sleeve of plastic throwaway Masters cups, probably picked up from any random fan who was finished with their drink, was mine, too.  Oh, well in that case, Eddie, thanks so much.   

Happy Masters Week!!

And...We're Back!

Today I heard a song on the radio that sent me back to slow dancing with a cute boy at the 7th/8th grade dance.  Everything from the smell of the freshly-waxed gym floor to the well-planned outfit I was wearing (cream jeans and a navy/garnet rugby shirt...circa 1993).  So can someone please explain to me why I can remember random, useless information like this, but yet I can't seem to remember things like packing underwear for my children when we go on a road trip?!  Apparently pregnancy brain does not go away upon delivery. 

Let me catch you up to speed since it's been four months since we last chatted (because I forgot to publish a post a few months ago about Preschool..but I uploaded that today).  We've built a house and finally moved in, Laiten is potty trained while Maisen refuses, and I'm still running around this town like a chicken with it's head cut off.  There have been millions of funny things that have happened in the folds of all of this goodness, and shame on me for getting away from documenting it here so that y'all can laugh with me (with me, not at me...right?!)  However, this last road trip I made to Atlanta gave me so much material, I knew I needed to make time to share the madness that is parenting twin toddlers. 

This road trip was the first I've made alone during the day (because only crazy people drive with toddlers during the day) with the girls since Laiten's been potty trained.  I knew this was going to create some melee, since she'd need to stop fairly often to potty and daddy wasn't along to help.  But there was no way I could stop every hour, drag two children out of their car seats and into some El Cheapo (a real place...see below) to utilize their public restroom without one of us contracting a disease of some sort.  So, I got creative and put her Baby Bjorn potty down in the floorboard on the passenger side.  Perfecto!  Maybe this wouldn't be so bad (said the devil himself). 

Things were going great until about 1.5 hours into the drive.  Those of you who've driven from Savannah to Atlanta are all too familiar with the barren drive of Interstate 16.  There are only a few places to stop until you get to I-75, and really only one place you can stop with piece of mind.  Laiten had to potty at the 30 minute and one hour mark, so from there I figured she was going to fall asleep and we'd be cruising all the way to Atlanta without any more stops.  Just as her eyes got heavy and I started to crank up Zac Brown, I heard a sleepy little whispery voice say, "Mommy??"  As any good parent with an almost napping child does, I acted like I didn't hear her.  (New or almost parents - this is a lesson for you.  Don't engage, don't make eye-contact and certainly don't ever make sleepy-talk with a child who's drifting off to Neverland.  Mistake of a lifetime.)  And then came, "Mommy - I have to poooooop!" 

Enter stage right:  a mother's panic in the middle of nowhere Georgia.

Maisen was sleeping, so I knew I needed to try to keep the peace as I started to weigh my options.  I asked Laiten a million times to confirm the fact that, yes, indeed, she had to go.  By this point, she was speed-chanting, "Oh mommy, hurry up!  I don't want to poop in my big girl panties!"  Just typing that brings me to a cold sweat.  I'm now going about 85 miles per hour down the interstate praying for a freaking exit sign.  I can see blue in the distance, so I know I'm getting close.  As I approach, I can only see one square on the exit sign, which means our options are limited to...(squinting, trying to make out what the sign says with my three-month old contacts) EL CHEAPO GAS STATION.  Fabulous. 

I pull into the ol' El Cheapo and act like I'm topping off my tank.  I grab Laiten and just about throw her into the passenger side floor board, and give her a high-five for not having an accident...and give myself a mental fiver for being a freaking amazing mom.  Potty in the car...whoop!!  I do a little survey of my shared company at the Cheapo, and allies are at a minimum.  Truckers, college kids and random vagrants.  At this rate, I don't really care.  I'm just glad we avoided a blitzkrieg in the car.  Laiten finishes her business, I get her back in the car seat...and then, I realize I have to do something with the aftermath.  I shuffle around the car to look for a plastic bag to package it up, and realize I have NOTHING.  No diaper bags, no Publix bags, not even a random Ziploc baggie, which on any other day, 45 of them would be scattered throughout my back seat.  My only option at this rate was to take a handful of wipes and well...freelance it right into the gas station garbage can.  I'll save you the graphic details since I've already used the P word several times against my better judgement, but know that it wasn't pretty and I sped away, leaving rubber on the road at the El Cheapo.  I'm guessing I'm not welcome back.

I really thought I was well-prepared for this trip, but forgetting the plastic bags for the dooty was only my first mishap.  I also forgot to pack any big girl panties for Laiten (although she was excited to buy new fairies ones in Atlanta), forgot to put her panties on for church that Sunday (commando with the Lord...somewhere my Grandma is having heart palpitations) and forgot plastic bags yet again for the trip home (where I had to replay the El Cheapo situation but at an abandoned Walmart parking lot in Jonesboro this time).  Apparently getting Laiten completely potty trained has caused me to lose my mind, memory and sanity.  I'm not bald or gray yet, though...good news.  Maybe Maisen will stay in Pull Ups forever.  I'm starting to like that idea.

First Day of Preschool

There was every indiciation that today was going to be a bruiser.  L&M woke up at 6:45 because "alligators were scaring them."  I had to explain to them that most Seminole fans have had a bad dream or two about those scary-looking kids that call themselves Gators.  (Couldn't resist.)  Laiten was hunting and pecking in the bathroom about 10 minutes before we were walking out the door, and found mommy's pretty pink razor.  She came waltzing into the living room in her beautiful school dress, hair coifed just right in her "bangs-only" ponytail...and a hand bleeding so badly that I thought certainly there was a finger missing.  All I could think of was her dripping blood onto her new school shoes or wiping a shmear of blood down the front of her sweet dress.  Two soaked towels and three Dora BandAids later (the first two BandAids were not appropriate, as they did not include Boots), we were back in business and sliding into the car just in time to make it to school before the bell. 

Believe it or not, the before and during school was actually the easiest part of my day.  The girls were excited to march into school (although Maisen was a little nervous) and play with their new friends.  The school was full of young, breezy parents dropping off their little ones for the first time.  Eddie and I left L&M with the parting words to please be nice to all the kids because mommy and daddy are still making new friends in Savannah, and well...we can't afford for y'all to be hateful preschoolers! 

The carpool line at the end of the school day was pretty hilarious.  The carpool line is like walking into a party with your mute button on.  I've got a ginormous poster board with my kids' names on it in my dash, so do you...let's smile and wave at each other and share menial nonverbal communication queues.  If you've ever driven/rode in a Jeep, you know what I'm talking about - you give a little wave that means, "Hey - you're cool, I'm cool - we're in the same club."  I was laughing out loud (silently to my new friends) by the end of my 30 minutes. 

But it was after lunch and our afternoon nap that things got a little dicey.  We had to pick up our dog from the kennel after our long weekend in Tallahassee.  We loaded Bowden up into the car and started our trek back home when I noticed (what I thought were) muddy paw prints all over the console.  Hmmmm...at the next red light, I looked back and saw them all over the back seat too, as L&M were trading hugs with Bowden and catching up on lost sugars.  I caught a glance at B's rear paw and noticed that was indeed NOT mud, but rather...well, you can imagine.  Seems we must have ran through someone's 'today's special' on our way out of the kennel and now it was all. over. my. car.  And the dog.  And quite possibly, the children.  No visible signs indicated such on the children, but my mind was crawling with disgust.  I pulled over and furiously swept the entire car looking for baby wipes.  Not in the back seat, not in trunk, nothing in the glove box.  MOTHER OF PEARL, HOW DOES A MOM OF TWINS NOT HAVE A FREAKING WIPE TO HER NAME?!?!  So out of sheer desperation, I grabbed the dog's blanket out of the back and begin to furiously scrub anything that would stand still.  It was a disaster. 

When we pulled into the apartment complex, I dashed inside to grab the dog wash and gloves, and drove everyone down to the car wash.  I scrubbed Bowden within an inch of his life and was able to find some Armor-All wipes to make some progress on the interior.  (Still couldn't find a mother flippin' baby wipe.)  When we got home, I threw the girls into the bathtub and thought seriously about dashing in a capful of Clorox.  Since I'm already in the running for Mother of the Year, I bypassed the Clorox, but did decide to use bar soap instead of baby wash because apparently in my fetal mind, bar soap has stronger cleaning qualities.

After I got both girls out of the bathtub and into their fresh jammies, I gave them both a snack and a big girl cup of milk (we're preschoolers now!)  I turned to cut myself a rice krispie treat and take a deep breath when I heard Laiten say, "Mommy!!  The TV is broken!"  And that's when I saw her big girl cup in a puddle of milk...on top of our cable box. 

And that's when mommy's brain fried for the day, right along with our cable TV.  (I'm breaking out in hives just thinking about it.) 

Did I mention that we'll do this all over again tomorrow?    

Potty Training Part Deux: Public Restroom Drama

We're still making strides with potty training...one slow day at a time.  After the first two weeks, I thought maybe the girls weren't quite ready, or maybe I was just a really crappy (pun intended) mom with not enough gusto to keep up with the rigor of teaching two human beings how to properly potty.  But after talking with some of my mommy friends, it takes a while for a little munchkin to become fully potty trained (surprise!)  Sometimes weeks, months or heaven forbid, years.  So, we're taking it easy (no pressure, no timers, but of course, we've stuck with M&Ms) and things seems to be moving in the right direction.  Until then, my 3 Day Potty Training book is gathering dust on my hard drive. 

With these new potty habits has come a love-affair with public restrooms.  At first, I was taking them into the public restrooms just to get them used to using the potty wherever we were, but now it's become a phenomenon.  Publix, the Library, Ann Taylor LOFT, Target...you name it, we've checked it out.  So when they asked to go potty today during our shopping trip to Bass Pro Shops, I wasn't surprised.

I pushed our tandem stroller into the restroom (which is about as long as a Grand Marquis), and with the help of a six-point turn, rolled that bad boy down to the last stall.  Much to my chagrin, I noticed we would be sharing the facility with someone else.  Bless her heart.  In an effort to shield this lady from the potty circus that's about to go down, I say a quick prayer that she's wrapping up her business and will be out of there before I finish a complete sanitization of the handicapped stall (which is obviously applicable to moms potty training twins - duh.)  Just as I'm done bleaching, steaming and properly covering all exposed surfaces (an exaggeration, sure, but not far from the truth), I hear this sweet lady "settle in and get comfortable."  Oh no.  Lady, you do not want to do this right now.  I turn to L&M who are quietly sitting in their stroller with eyes as big as golf balls.  And before I can wipe the sweat from my brow, the games begin.

I'm careful to not let the prayers running through my mind, slip out of my mouth.  Not all of the bleach wipes and seat covers in the world were going to help me out of this situation.  I know this poor lady had to have been stressed to the brim.  No one likes to be disturbed in their moment of the day, let alone by a cheerleading mom and her brood of toddlers.  So, I proceed like nothing is going on...even though L&M can smell fear like a Bloodhound.  I hoist Maisen on the potty first and no sooner than I get her up there, Laiten begins heckling. 

"Mommy - is that little boy peeing?"  (The woman was wearing checkered Vans...boy shoes, apparently.)

In my most positive and cheerful tone (a permanent potty training fixture), I tell her that this is where all big girls come to potty, and what an awesome job they were both doing right now by telling mommy they had to potty!  However, I soon realize I'm getting ready to fight a losing battle.  There was an early fireworks show starting in the next stall.  

"MOMMY!!!  THAT LITTLE BOY IS POOOOOOOOPING, MOMMY!!"

"MOOOOOOM - I DON'T WANT TO PEE PEE IN HERE IF THAT LITTLE BOY IS POOPING!!"

For those of you who have toddlers, you know they never say anything just once.  They both were chiming in on repeat until it sounded like a ritual chant coming from our stall.  Nothing I was saying could even begin to drown them out.  I could feel the sweat rolling down my back, and I was choking down laughter that I knew would be unstoppable if I let it out for even a second.  I didn't know what was worse - the fact there were calling her a little boy, or that they were announcing to the world that she was takin' care of business.  Either way, I know she was wishing she had chosen another time to take her 15 minute break.  And I was silently pleading with my children to not take three hours each to tinkle five drops into the potty.

After we hustled through two potty breaks, the circus of washing hands and getting back into the stroller, we were out of there with smoke coming off our tires.  We headed to the checkout to buy the two rashguards we came for, but no one was manning the register.  Finally a guy came over to help us out.  I was signing the reciept when the cashier came hustling over, muffling a "thanks" to the guy for covering for her.  I glanced over at her and don't know why, but took a look at her shoes.  Checkered Vans.  We had come face to face with the Phantom Dooker.  We knew it was her; she knew it was us.  We shared a smile and I made a beeline for the door. 

Never a dull moment in world of potty training.

  



 

I Locked My Kids in the Car

And not on purpose...although some days that feels like a completely viable alternative.  Yesterday, I committed the ultimate parenting folly and locked my keys AND my kids (the power of "and" is also applicable in my personal life, apparently) in the car in a grocery store parking lot...in the middle of a rain band from Tropical Storm Debby. 

This whole comedy of errors began because I needed a gallon of milk.  Not just a regular gallon of milk that I could swing in and get at a gas station, but a gallon of organic milk.  If I hadn't gone all crunchy granola mom lately, I could have pulled into the gas station at the corner, locked my kids in the car PURPOSEFULLY (I know, I know...another award-winning move) and ran in to get a gallon of milk.  We would have drove home, most likely unharmed and rather dry (barring there wasn't anyone waiting to steal a car in the pouring rain at Enmark) and sweet L&Ms thirst would have been quenched without wreaking havoc in our (my) life. 

But when I weighed the risks of giving L&M regular milk versus making the trek for organic milk, it just sounded too tragic (please read my sarcasm here...these children were consuming regular milk from Hogly Wogly's and Piggly Wiggly's all over the state of Georgia from months 12-24.)   

So, I decided to huff it to the closest grocery store and put myself through the hell of taking two toddlers out in the rain, in order to get my beloved organic milk.  Like Tom Brady on a Sunday morning, I ran the play in my head over and over again.  Once I pulled into the parking lot and was mentally prepared (I know this is a dramatic term for "ready," but if you've ever carried two 28 pound children in the pouring rain, while sprinting, you'd feel me here.)  I hustled out of the driver's side, scooped up Maisen and the umbrella, and then dodged over to the other side of the car to pick up Laiten and haul rear to the front of the store.  I'm no Lolo Jones, but we made it unscathed and somewhat dry.

The journey to the milk cooler went unbelievably smooth; the girls held hands and we marched through the store like we were the most well-behaved family in the neighborhood.  On the way out,  I noticed that the rain was really coming down, like those ridiculous sidewinding sheets of rain.  So, I put the girls and the milk in a cart and wheeled everyone out to the car under the umbrella.  The thought even crossed my mind as I ran in the rain, that I was really proud of myself for pulling this off.  (Insert: devil laugh.)  I quickly opened the back hatch of our SUV, throwing L&M in the back, along with the milk...and my keys.  By the time I shut the hatch and made it to the driver's side, my stomach sunk to my kneecaps.  I did a loop of the car just to confirm my fear - all. doors. locked.   

As the rain pelted me in the face (I had abandoned the umbrella in a panic), I calmly yelled to the girls to get mommy's keys and press the buttons.  It actually sounded more like, "Yey - press the buttons!  Let Mommy in the car!  Whoa boy...it sure is raining hard out here and Mommy wants to be inside with you!!"  Laiten grabbed the keys and pressed the lock button at least 250 times.  Each time the horn blasted as her sweet little fingers smashed the button, I could feel my famous nervous laughter creeping up through my chest.  Most passersby were giving me the "Lord-Knows-We've-All-Been-There" sympathy glance...with the exception of one woman who felt compelled to give me the look of death.  Old hag. 

Trying to shut out the other shoppers in the parking lot, I continued begging the girls to unlock the car, to no avail.  By this time, they had moved to the driver and passenger seats, figured out how to put their seat belts on (riddle me that...figured out seat belts, but not the door locks?) and were putting a hurtin' on two packs of chewing gum and a tube of Chapstick they uncovered in my console.  I had to turn my back after Maisen popped the fifth piece of gum into her mouth so that I could laugh until I cried.  It was time to throw in the towel and call Eddie. 

I said a prayer while I darted into the store to call Eddie (yes, my cell phone - also in said locked car) and tell him what I had gotten myself into.  He did his best to not laugh me off the phone and said he'd be right there.  By the time I got back out to the car, the girls had the hazard lights on (how appropriate) and I decided I would just grin and bear it until Eddie arrived with my spare keys. 

Five minutes later, we were unlocked...I was soaked to the bone, the girls were covered in gum and Chapstick, and Eddie was laughing at me like he'd waited his whole life to witness such debauchery on my part.  And while I've taken a rather humorous approach to looking at this entire incident, I realize it could have been tragic.  Had it been a normal June afternoon in Savannah, the temperatures would have been sweltering and I would have been in straight meltdown panic mode (and yes, mom...I would have called the Fire Department.)  Thankfully, the Lord must have felt like teaching me a lesson without making me suffer too badly. 

So, all of that to say, when you see me strutting around Savannah in my new phone/key-holding fanny pack - don't hate.

Will Poo For M&Ms

Potty training (or at least a very noble attempt) is in full swing at our house and I'm quite certain that if having twin newborns didn't kill me, getting them to go on the potty will.  When we started, I kept comparing it to being at the bottom of Stone Mountain and knowing it was going to take me 104,583 steps to get to the top in the hot Georgia sun.  But, after some initial potty shenanigans a few weeks ago, I'm pretty sure it's more akin to being at the bottom of Mount Kilimanjaro in the freezing cold and climbing it naked only using your hands. 

Here's a little snippet of my first whack at L&Ms "potty boot camp" from a few weeks ago:

- Woke up and put on big girl panties.  Total score.  L&M love Dora and Minnie, and wearing them on their bootie is apparently, totally boss.  Throw in a teaser of the Dora stickers that can be earned for one's and two's in the potty, and we're full speed ahead.  They're excited, I'm excited...you get it.

- Set my iPhone timer to go off every 15 minutes.  This is when I planned to lead everyone to the potty like a drum major in the marching band.  You laugh, but it's not easy to corral two kids into the bathroom when they'd rather [insert random activity here, i.e. ride the dog, color on the walls, eat popcorn from in between the couch cushions.]  And plus, they love playing Marching Chiefs, so what the heck.

- Reminded myself of the only rule I'm following, which is to never take my eyeballs off of two said potty trainers.  This is what the proclaimed "Potty Training Queen" says in her book 3 Day Potty Training.  I'm not following the book exactly (at least, not yet) but I did take away some tips that sounded useful...and this seemed like a solid Golden Rule. 

- Spent the next 15 minutes exhausting myself by asking potty trainers on repeat, "Are your panties dry?  Do you need to potty?"  And by the grace of God, L&M stayed dry for the first 15 minutes.  I literally broke into a victory dance in the living room, getting the girls on the bandwagon of celebrating being dry.  In fact, we may have even burst into a round of the Hallelujah Chorus.  (In hindsight, this is probably where Satin himself heard my boisterous exclamations and decided to cancel the rest of his appointments for the day to intervene.) 

- iPhone alarm rings for our first true test - the 15 minute potty break.  L&M sat on the potty and I crouched on their potty stool, and we all stared at each other, waiting for the first tinkle.  Then, in a random occurrence from hell, our dog scuttles in, gives us all a glance, and pees all over the bathroom floor.  Apparently, he was feeling left out of the potty pomp and circumstance, and wanted to remind me that he's a big man on campus, too.  @#$%&*! 

- This is where I basically lose all known control of the situation.  The girls panic and run out of the bathroom, and I make a dive for the kitchen to swipe some paper towels.  At this moment (and it literally happened in a split second), everything has officially gone southbound.  I had broken the Bishop of Potty's cardinal rule (thou shalt never taketh eyeballs of potty trainers), and I may as well stepped on a live grenade. 

- In the time I was gone to the kitchen, both potty trainers evacuated the bathroom to the bedroom where they both peed on the carpet, and of course, all over their shorts, which they didn't have time to abandon from around their ankles.  The dog was in disarray, (probably because I was screaming, "No pottying in the house!  Bad boy!  NO POTTYING IN THE HOUSE!") which led him to commit yet another crime of insanity.  He went right into the bedroom where the girls were scurrying and did the deed.  Yes, what you're thinking is correct.  He pooped on the floor, thus scaring my children for life.  Apparently, because of my laser-like focus on the girls all morning, I had forgotten to take the dog outside...argggggghhhhh.

So, for the rest of the day and those thereafter, the girls decided going on the potty was risky business.  Laiten, who's been using the potty off and on since she was 18 months old, decided she was more content going in her pull-up.  No harm, no foul.  Maisen begged for a diaper ("I'm a baby, mommy, I don't care!  Give me a diaperrrrr!") and decided the reward of a Dora sticker was no longer worth the valiant effort. 

So, we took a week off while they went to Gigi and Pappy's in Atlanta, and started again yesterday with a new strategy.  One's and two's in the potty get M&Ms.  Simple and straightforward - if you pee or poo in the potty, you get an M&M.  (Oh, and the dog goes in the crate for all potty breaks.)   This ludicrous strategy has been met with only three human accidents (one accident was a "I can't get my shorts off fast enough" accident, so I probably shouldn't count that one) and zero doggy accidents all day.  Of course, the downside is that Laiten is now doing all but walking across hot coals for an M&M, ripping her pull-up off at any opportunity to try and score one.  And sweet Maisen, well...she's going to require a higher bounty.  M&Ms are still not enough to will her to the potty.  (I think she may be high-maintenance, although I'm not sure where she got that from.)

At this rate, I'll need to move to mini M&Ms by tomorrow to avoid pre-diabetes at two years old for Laiten, and stock up on extra fluoride toothpaste.  I think I'll also run by the ATM to get a couple of 20 dollar bills...that may be more Maisen's speed.   

Help a sister out.  What are your tried and true potty pointers???

Why New Moms Belong in a Sorority House

I loved living in my sorority house in college, but I certainly didn't realize how lucky I was until I graduated and had to move out on my own.  One night, I was holstering on my (less than desirable) hands-free pumping bra (a must have for all you new moms) and it reminded me of a far less complicated time in my life:  my sorority days.  I know that sounds like an awkward correlation, so let me explain. 
Back in the day, my sorority used to pass around a "Support Bra" during our chapter meetings to fellow sorority sisters who were working on something important and needed a little "support" from her sisters.  If you were the proud recipient of the Support Bra, you had to sign your name on the frisbee-shaped GGG-sized cups and wear the bra over your dress for the rest of the chapter meeting.  It was like marking your territory in the high school yearbook, but much, much funnier.

For the record, I think my inscription read something like, "JG - Phi Director, Fall 2001 - Surviving September 11 and the House Burning Down with 60 Phis."  Not funny at the time, but, that's a whole other story...

I remember drifting off to a dream (not a daydream, because daydreams happen during the day, and I'm sure the only time I dreamt at this point in my life was at 3 a.m.) as I hooked myself up to my hospital-grade Medela pump.  The hum of the pump's dual engines, powerful enough to charge a small fleet of cruise boats, sent my mind wandering to what it might be like to live back at in my sorority house.  Except now, with newborn twins.  And I tell you what...our national office should really consider it. 

Tell me if you disagree, but I'm pretty sure these are reason enough to move back to my college digs with a pair of newborns:

1.  Three hot meals a day that I wouldn't have to lift one finger to make.  Hell yes.  Oh, and for Mr. Troy to recognize I've been up all night and whip me up a peanut butter-crushed oreo-and-apple concoction that's a "cure all" to help me get myself together for the day ahead.  This reason alone is enough for me to crawl back to West Jefferson and beg for a room.

2.  A pink note in my mailbox that kindly reminds me that my bills are due.  Please and thank you.  This would have saved me from begging Comcast to not shut off my cable when I accidentally used my monthly bill as a bottle coaster for weeks on end and forgot to pay.

3.  There was always someone awake.  You could count on someone studying/coming home/hanging out in the TV room, at all hours.  This would be amazing when I just wanted to get one hour of sleep.  Or go to the gym.  Or spend the weekend at the beach.  It may have taken a bit of bribery (everybody has a price), but know I could have convinced someone to watch the girls for a bit.  Would there be a slight credibility issue with some of these people?  Sure.  But I wasn't the most stand-up parent either, after a three-day binger of no sleep.

4.  Chapter meetings to help remind me what it is I'm supposed to be doing each week, along with a wall calendar downstairs that detailed my daily activities.  (And sometimes even a king-sized banner that hung on the front of the house to remind me of something *really* important.)  Oh, and ending every chapter meeting with "5 Minutes of Positive" would have been refreshing.  My shoutout would be something like, "Jessi - you breastfeed like a crazy mother ***!  You are amazing and we love you!  And don't worry, you'll have your pre-baby body back in no time!!" 

5.  And lastly, I would have liked a little pick-me-up each day, like a few friendly presents emblazoned with my name and/or monogram, waiting for me on the table in the foyer.  A giant pomping mug or lap desk paint-penned in my favorite colors, or even a candy jar filled of my favorite snacks...gah.  That could have really nipped those mommy blues right in the bud. 

I didn't get past reason #5 because the timer on ol' Betty the Breast Pump went off, which meant I had a full 30 minutes to sleep before the feeding cycle started all. over. again...

Youth is wasted on the young, I tell ya.