A Fruitful Harvest

Last year I prepared the soil of my body. In the fall we planted the bulbs otherwise known as embryos, and two little tulips bloomed in the Spring.

We have so much to be thankful for this year and are extremely lucky to have beat the odds. We are looking forward to raising children that are thankful for what they have, and we are hoping to avoid the Need for Greed that plagues far too many children in America. Our dream one day, when they are old enough, is to spend some time with the twins on Thanksgiving Day working in a soup kitchen.

There’s nothing I need or want, and now I have everything I ever wanted in the whole wide world.

Now that we are growing children, it’s time to think about growing a vegetable garden so the children can learn of the time, effort and patience involved in growing food rather than only seeing a box or can on a shelf or the mounds of neatly stacked produce in the market.

Here’s to a bountiful harvest in the future.

Salut!

Gas pain, a runaway dog, and did you know shoes can get dry rot?

Yesterday my mom took pity on my lackluster meal preparation of late (when I told her we’d be noshing on some vegetarian borscht and cold baked chicken – now there’s an interesting juxtaposition!) and whipped up a batch of gourmet mac n cheese to take home for dinner. She packed it up nicely, insulated with newspaper, so in theory it would still be hot when we sat down to eat. She even cut up some fresh green beans so I would only need to drop them in a pot of water. I had carrots too, could handle that on my own.

So, got the babies home, unpacked, figured we would be able to eat before their next feeding. Not so at all.

The boy started squeaking at 6:15, just as the veggies finished cooking. I made bottles and changed the diapers. Girl baby started crying uncontrollably, didn’t want food, didn’t want to sleep, nothing was working, and I was starving. I put her back in the crib and she settled down, even smiled. I left to go eat so I had the strength to continue the evening’s duties.

As I gobbled down the food, hubby said, “Maybe she’s over-hungry. We could try some oatmeal.” I scowled and said, “Noooooooo. She’s bawling. She won’t want that.” Also, I didn’t want her to choke on cereal while crying so hard.

After I inhaled my food, I was ready for another attempt to feed her. Just then, the dog wanted to go out. I opened the front door, and usually I grab Ashiko’s collar before putting her on her chain, but she bolted out the door in pursuit of one of the neighborhood cats (who happens to look just like Snoopy). I ran out after her, but stopped in the middle of the street and thought, “Great…this is hopeless…I might as well just go back inside…she’ll come home eventually.” But I walked around the circle towards the cat’s house, and the owner and her dog were returning from a walk. She said our dog was nearby, had been playing with her dog. I said, “Where is she now? She’s probably gone back home and is making me walk all the way around the circle.” Sure enough, when I got back, there she was in the front yard, waiting for me. Sigh.

So then…I scooped up whiny girl baby and she was crying again. Sat down with her at the dining table, and she still didn’t want any bottle. I said to the hubby, “Hmm…maybe she does want some oatmeal.” We got that ready, and after the first spoonful she cheered up and let out a lonnnnnnnnnnnggggg loud toot. Aha! So it was gas pain that was causing all the distress! She ate all the cereal, happily tooting during the meal, had a few sips from the bottle and fell fast asleep. She was worn out from the ordeal! I then had to apologize to the hubby and (cough, cough) tell him he was RIGHT for suggesting the cereal idea. Newman!

This morning, I yanked an old pair of shoes out of the closet that I haven’t worn in 10 years. I’ve had them since 1993. They were always comfy, a classic style, German-made, long-lasting, yada yada. When I stopped at my folks’ at lunchtime to deliver some pumpage, they said, “Where’d all that mud come from that was on your shoes? We’ve been cleaning up little piles of it here and there.” I said, “What mud?” and looked at the bottom of my shoes to find that the heels had dry-rotted and were crumbling all over kingdom come! Who knew shoes could get dry rot?

I returned to work and entertained the Chief of Fashion Police with my fashion faux pas. She said, “Only YOU would keep shoes for 15 years!” She actually admitted they were a cute style but gave me a demerit for my socks that didn’t bear any matching quality to the rest of my ensemble, which is always a sore spot with her. But hey, at least I don’t wear my purple Crocs every day anymore! Those were my preggo work shoes.

Motherhood Has Made Me Mushy

Last Thursday, I teared up during Obama’s infomercial because I am so proud of him and all the things he stands for and the hope that he instills in our country.

Friday, my mother told me that some family friends had lost their 43 year old son in a sudden collapse earlier in the week.

Saturday, while I shopped for a sympathy card for the family, a John Denver song played on the drugstore’s radio, with lyrics something like “There’s so much more I’ve got to do.” John Denver will get you every time. I lost it.

And in light of the recent death of this young man, as I sat last night with my sleeping son in my arms, I thought about how much I love my parents and how much they love me. Now I know how true it is when a mother says, “No matter how old you get, you’ll always be my baby.” And now I know why every time I leave my parents’ house with the babies in the back, my dad tells me to take my time going home, and every Fall he tells me to be careful driving on the leaf-covered roads. Now I’ll be a little less-inclined to shrug it off and just say, “Yeah, yeah.”

This morning, I teared up on the drive into work, especially when I heard Jesse Jackson during some rehashed election coverage. It is a GREAT day to be alive in America, no matter your background. We are all one now.

Sadly, I discovered that I have to work on January 20. My mom suggested I feign illness to stay home and watch Obama’s inauguration!

Should Have Named the Dog BPITA

BPITA = Big Pain In The Arse

The dog almost killed herself the other day, and for a split second I thought about letting her!

Lately, as I buzz around the house at breakneck speed getting all my non-mom-that-hubby-can't-help-with-stuff done, the dog is ALWAYS underfoot. I swear I'm going to stomp on her rib cage one of these days and will have to add an emergency vet trip to my already long to-do list.

The other day, as I sat down to pump, I had one kid asleep in the swing in the living room and the other amusing herself in the Exersaucer next to me in the kitchen. The dog was quiet enough, for the time being, under the kitchen table (where I pump). She found an empty round Quaker oats box and was nibbling on the rim of it.

Moments later, unaware that she had left the room with the oat box (as she often does with paper egg cartons as well, to go shred), I happened to see her stagger past the kitchen door and saw that she had the oat box stuck on her snout up PAST HER EYES. I thought, "Hey! I should take a picture!" So I got up to go get the camera, but as I passed Sheeks I realized she couldn't breathe with her nose and mouth trapped. I went to pull off the box but it was really tight! A stronger tug did the trick, and no harm was done.

Yesterday, when we were walking around the circle, she thought someone's pumpkin was a cat. Her moderate amount of intelligence deduced that the pumpkin was at the house where the cats lurk outside, and one of the cats is orange. So she put two and two together and pulled towards the pumpkin. But I thought dogs were colorblind? When we walk in the dusk, she thinks large rocks are cats too.

There's a reason cats score higher on their SAT's. :-)