Dear 21-Year-Old Self

How's it going, you know, now that you've had the rug pulled out from under you? Seriously, though, were you really doing okay before that epiphany of an appointment? Shitty economy. Job prospects for your boyfriend not that hot. A kid on the way. And you still have college to finish, correct? So today was just icing on the cake because "twins" was exactly what you wanted to hear.

Guess what . . . you'll be fine. That boyfriend of yours will turn out great. And those twins? They will be the most amazing women you've ever met. Sure, you'll struggle. You'll wonder if living in your car is an option. Food stamps will look like a luxury at some point in time. And the two of you will do just about anything to make a go of it. You'll finish college - and just a semester late - but not without some sacrifice. Turns out working third shift will be the only way to avoid the cost of daycare (plus it's awesome birth control). And you'll put off work for about eight years. But being a stay-at-home-mom is something that you'll enjoy and excel at. Sure you won't be the crunchy "I'm going to make my own paint and paper and never let my kids watch t.v." SAHM, but you'll figure out a way to encourage those girls to find their own answers to just about everything.

Baby A and Baby B

So, buck up, little camper, because you're going to need it real soon. You're going to gain about 60 more pounds. You'll go into early labor in about six weeks, and you'll end up in the hospital. Your boyfriend will miss his National Teaching Exam because he won't leave your bedside. And your father? He's going to need open heart surgery, and your mom won't tell you because she's too worried about how you will react (then again, she won't tell your father that she told you . . . and hilarity ensues). After early labor, you're going to wind up on bedrest for 10 weeks . . . and owe your sisters more than you can ever repay. But eventually, on April 15, you'll start to understand what life is really all about.

And you'll never be the same,
Your 42-year-old self

PS - Last year's post here

The Family Ink

When I was a kid, the only person I knew who had tattoos was my uncle and godfather. He had the kind that were typical of the mid-60s, the ones that looked like they were done during his stint in the Army or ones that had to do with riding motorcycles. I'm still not sure what most of them were, but you could only see them during the summer when short sleeves were common. Nobody ever really talked about Uncle Gene having tattoos, but you knew that they were there just under the shirt sleeves.

The occasional person had them in college. Usually the story would go something like this. So-and-so was at a party/spring break/visiting a friend at Ohio University. So-and-so had too much to drink, and they got a tattoo of Taz/the Nike symbol/barbed wire. So-and-so claimed to love it, but you never saw the tattoo unless so-and-so had too much to drink and then you had to listen to all the stories about this one time when they were at a party/spring break/visiting a friend at Ohio University they got a tattoo.

But about ten years ago, men started sporting tribal bands on their arms, and women began to flaunt the ubiquitous "tramp stamp" everywhere from New York City to Springfield. During my first year working as an instructional aide, a student teacher had one. She didn't think anyone could see it, but trust me, everyone did. Occasionally, you would see a male teacher with a tattoo on his calf or a female teacher with a heart on her shoulder blade. Most people got them for very personal reasons. "I was turning 40, so I got a tattoo," was one reason. Another, "Divorce kind of sucked."

They are kind of in order

Getting a tattoo took some amount of deliberation. Personally, I've always liked tattoos. I like the way that the artists can blend the colors on a very unforgiving canvas. They truly are artists,  using a tool that is operating up to 190 hits per second and one that doesn't have an eraser. So what prompted me to get that first tattoo? I was irritated that my brother chose a wedding date the summer after he got engaged  and not the next summer . . . so I got a tattoo. And I didn't tell my mom. And I did it when she was out of the country. In China. The rest have pretty much just flowed from there.

• The Girls' birth flower (sweet peas) when they left for college. I changed my opinion on having a visible tattoo as a teacher because I wanted the Girls close to me even if other people could see it. 
• The Frost quote that I've loved since college. I call it my "cheat sheet" . . . as in, "Hey, shitty day, I learned something about life: it goes on."
• The C in the crook of my arm. My brother died when I was three and he was nine-months old. I despise the day in January. But I got this tattoo to remind me of him, and it's connected to the Girls through the quote. It has made January 28s bearable to say the least. 
• The joke on my upper arm. My friend Mary and I went to a Kings of Leon concert and got really, really drunk. I sent a few drunk texts to the Girls that involved the words "getting a tattoo," "the Greatest," and "what are you? my mother." Needless to say, I didn't get the tattoo (I was beyond wasted), but I did get it last October in Columbus during a Flickr meet up. 
• The ball of yarn. Because I could . . . and because the artist I go to in Stroudsburg does amazing detail work . . . and because he could. 
• The lyrics. Every night, we had the same routine. Read a book in the rocking chair. Sing "You Are My Sunshine." Kiss goodnight. Go to bed. We had this routine for years. And then they started to get too big for the routine. But they make me happy when skies are grey. 

I don't really know why the Girls have the tattoos that they do. All I know is they were at least 18 years of age when they got their tattoos. After their nose piercings, I refused to sign any more body modification forms for them. I didn't want them sitting around with their friends at school, talking about the time that they were bored/tired/depressed, and their mom signed a form for a tattoo. Those stories needed to be all their own. 

There She Goes

When you go out into the workforce, they generally give you a manual or a job description or something that will get you through the day. Occasionally, they'll give you some on-the-job training, perhaps even a mentor or two. But being a parent is a whole other kettle of fish. Sure there are books, but have you ever really studied the What To Expect book series? The information in there is enough to scare a woman into crossing her legs and hoping for the best for the rest of her fucking life. But you can't cross your legs and ignore that ever growing bump because ready or not, you've got to have that baby sometime. You can read every book ever written. You can be the best baby-sitter ever. It still won't help after they hand that baby - or two - over to you.

So, twenty years ago, I was concerned about getting drugs before the contractions got any worse (yup . . . at 1cm, I was concerned about drugs). I didn't want to puke on the operating table (I did). Dave didn't want to see anything during the C-section (and saw it all). By 10:30 PM, we no longer had Baby A and Baby B. Instead, Jordan and Shelby entered our lives, and we never looked back.

"There She Goes" by the Boo Radleys

"Sweet Disposition" by Temper Trap

Happy birthday, Girls! You are the greatest . . . and I have the tattoo to prove it.

Love,
Madre

PS - When they were little, they would often sing the songs that Dave and I listened to. "There She Goes" was one of their favorite. Somehow, their other favorite didn't seem appropriate for a birthday.

So I Got a Compliment From My Girls

Been a while, right? Let's run down the list of usual suspects: February sucks (raise your hands if you agree), the weather sucks (keep 'em up), the news sucks even harder (can I get an "Amen"), and sickness has been rampant (what ever companies make Puffs, Tylenol Cold & Sinus, and Ny-Quil ought to be in double digit profits by now). Tie all this up in a shiny little bow called "life," and you get a pretty big dose of blog silence (there's always Flickr, don't forget).

It's been about six weeks since Dave and I dropped the Girls off in Philly for the second semester. In that time, we've chatted on a phone a bit, texted a lot, and sent numerous Facebook messages - most of which either dissected the location of Vietnam Restaurant in Chinatown and why their father should have his own Facebook site. We bought them Cheez-Its for Valentine's Day and some other goofy crap . . . but then they surprised us with news that they were coming home for President's Day weekend. Awesome! But only for the evening. Now so awesome!

It was a quick trip, one that enabled them to head to Target and pick up all the things that would cost double at a Rite-Aid near school. But during that trip, they paid us a pretty big compliment: we had raised competent adults. They know how to: pay bills on time, recycle appropriately, wash dishes, cook for themselves, care for an animal, write papers that get As, budget their time, save their money (or at least know that saving their money is a good idea), know when to leave when people are drinking, treat other people the way that they would like to be treated, talk to other people politely.

At first, I wasn't sure it was a compliment . . . but then I thought about it, and figured that they were right: we had, in fact, raised competent adults. Jordan is currently a student coordinator for the Honor's department's alternative Spring Break. So when we see her sister over Spring Break, Jordan will be working with different faith communities in Philly on outreach projects. Shelby finished her study abroad application for Heidelberg and will most likely be celebrating her 21st birthday nine hours before Jordan. There are plans already for grad school in California or Vermont and the studying of the Icelandic language and heading off for different countries.

But no matter where they go, they'll still be Other Baby and Other Baby, carefully scripting what they wanted the other one to say.

- Jill

What You Love To Hate

Around Christmas time, Dave found a Clockwork Man on a website for about $6.00 and decided to buy it. He told me it was huge, but I never anticipated on it being as tall as what it was. He's had other large action figure before, and all have had disastrous results.

The Sauron figure he bought in England had a voice chip and would play some of the lines from the Lord of the Rings movies. It was so loud that I could hear it in the living room. Occasionally it would go off in the middle of the night and scare the shit out of me. How else should one react when you hear a booming, "Build me an army of Mordor." One minute I'm sleeping soundly, happily dreaming of fluffy bunnies or Matt Damon or fluffy bunnies and Matt Damon. The next? Wondering if my house is being attacked by Orcs.

Prior to Sauron, he had a Stormtrooper that was incredibly detailed in all respects except for one: balance. At least once a week, he would spring from his perch and land on the floor with a giant thud. Sometimes it would wake me up and I would place it gingerly on the dresser. But other times I would step on it upon waking and nearly fall head first into the dresser. The Stormtrooper lasted a little longer than Sauron, but I did threaten to break its head off the next time it decided to commit suicide by dresser jumping.

So, the Clockwork Man? It holds a special place in my heart because it didn't do a damn thing to me . . . it did it to Jordan. About four or five years ago, Jordan and Dave were watching a Doctor Who episode, "The Girl In the Fireplace," and she got supremely scared by the Clockwork Man. I wasn't home and didn't fully comprehend how scared she was until later. The phone rang about 3 AM, and when I answered, it was a very frightened Jordan on the other end. The only problem? She was calling to tell me she was a) scared, b) right next door in her bedroom, c) calling from her cellphone, and d) all because of f-ing Doctor Who. Really? From Doctor Who?

Fast forward to this Christmas and the cheap sale for the Clockwork Man action figure. Dave was tempted to put it in her bed - but didn't. Instead we called her into our room one night after we had gone to bed, and she and Shelby were coming back from a friend's house. Upon seeing it, she let loose with a litany of words that would make any sailor proud.

- Jill

A Closet Of My Own

 When we bought our house 11 years ago, we were undaunted by the fact that it only has two-and-a-half closets. I figured that this would be our "starter" house, and we'd buy a larger one that had walk-in closets with room for my ever burgeoning shoe collection. Funny thing happened . . . we never moved. Turns out we kind of liked living "in town," close to my job and the highway for Dave's commute. Over the years, however, the closet became a sticky point for the Girls and me. We had to share, which kind of sucks for three women.

When they left for college, the closet situation didn’t get any better. There were shoes everywhere, blouses that didn’t fit my figure, pants that might have been fashionable seven years ago but never would be again, and clothes that were a hold-over from my college days in the early ‘90s.The blouses were the absolute worst. I’ve never been able to find the perfect white blouse to fit my figure. If I bought a blouse to fit my boobs, I looked about six months pregnant with all the excess fabric flowing around my stomach. If I got them to fit my waist, I looked like I was auditioning for an adult film. It might be attractive on some people, but I teach middle school. But yet, I still bought white blouse after white blouse expecting a different outcome. I would shove the blouses into my closet only to realize that I already had two versions of the same damn thing in there. What the hell was my problem?

A good friend of mine purged all the jeans in her closet and gave them to me. "I don't care what you do with them . . . I just can't give them to Good Will," she said. I went through the pile and found a duplicate of my absolute favorite jeans. The rest went off to Good Will. And I promptly went through my closet and loaded up her bag with all my blouses because there was a shred of a possibility that they would fit her. Same speech, most likely the same outcome . . . but it got me thinking.

What did I really need in this closet? Turns out just the items I selected for the first phase of Project 333. I've run into a couple of bumps, but I guess that is normal. Part of this process is using what I have; a bigger process, however, is figuring out who I am. I don't need to wear the trendy clothing, so why even bother buying it. I only wear clothing that makes me comfortable and looks good on me. I wear a lot of neutrals . . . but always with pops of color.

- Jill, wearing comfy blue jeans, a white t-shirt, gray swing cardigan, and a hand-knit red silk scarf

Call It What You Will

epiphany (noun) - 1. the manifestation of a supernatural or divine reality; 2. any moment of great or sudden revelation; 3. Oh, crap.

Shelby and Jordan, Christmas 2010, who posed like that

So, you're 20, pregnant, and the Christmas holidays have just passed. You didn't have any money to buy both presents for your family and presents for the other half of your "dynamic duo." The holidays were kind of crappy because, well, you're pregnant and apparently huge according to anyone with an opinion. So you eat a few more cookies.

At your next doctor's visit on January 6, a nurse filled in all the information and told you that your weight gain was a whopping seven pounds. She even congratulates you on taking it easy on the cookies during a stressful eating period. But you know better . . . she subtracted wrong. It won't be long until she realizes her mistake; that was 17 pounds. So much for taking it easy

Seventeen pounds turns out to be a lot when you are pregnant. It sets off all sorts of warning bells and worried looks. And in twenty minutes, your life takes an even more bizarre turn. Seventeen pounds was an epiphany in every sense of the word. Twins: the manifestation of a divine reality; a moment of great revelation; oh, crap.

I count very few days during the year as truly special, but January 6 is one of those days. We never really celebrated the Epiphany in our house, but usually, it signified the end of the Christmas season. Mom had us take down the lights and the decorations, and we gave the Christmas carols one last hurrah before they were packed away for a ten months. Now, it reminds me all over again that sometimes things do work out but not without a lot of hard work and risk on your part. It makes me sit up and take notice about the world around me, especially how proud I am of my daughters because they were worth a lot of hard work and risk on my part. It puts a smile on my face knowing that I got something right.

- Jill

Waiting For My Face To Return To Normal

I chipped a tooth a year ago pulling a needle through a rather tight button (I know, Mom . . . you didn't spend all that money on braces for me to use my teeth as a pliers). So today, I had the front bonded, and now I am waiting to head into work for the second half of my day. The only problem? The novocaine is really messing with the left side of my face. I don't have cavities and have only had novocaine once when I was 12 . . . so this is really freaking me out.

So I'm distracting myself with some photos from our really quick trip to Philadelphia to see the Girls this weekend . . . and focusing on Brew Fest.

- Jill

Jordan at Ted's

Shelby at the Franklin Fountain

Olive (who hasn't changed a bit)

Pretty much how we live . . . and I kind of like it like that

Damn Swedes

If you are Swedish, let me apologize as I truly love your fish. But IKEA must be "torture" in Swedish. Honestly, if you really want to break a suspect Jack Bauer style, just hand them an IKEA bed frame and slats and tell them that they have one hour to accomplish the task or confess. I guarantee . . . they will break every single time.

Let me explain (without photos . . . I refer you to the title of this post). The Girls are living in an apartment with a year round lease in Philadelphia. And I decided to turn one room into a guest room and the other into a "den" of sorts. So, a friend gladly claimed the beds - from IKEA, no less - and we were left with semi-empty rooms. Dave felt kind of guilty as his room is basically untouched from the days when he was living with his parents. Mine? Hell, I think Erika moved into that room the day I moved into the dorms at Miami. So, no . . . I didn't feel guilty.

But today, I feel sore. Like someone kicked me a thousand times and then asked me to turn around and kicked me another thousand for good nature. My back is on a tiny little hinge that needs oil in the worst way. I visited IKEA not once, but twice searching for a bed that was "just right" and loaded all sorts of prefab Swedish torture devices in the Pilot. One man was kind enough to help me load the headboard into the back, but he was the exception as most people shot me dirty looks for not being able to control my shopping car with full swivel wheels and the hand truck that was toting the heavy stuff. In hindsight,  perhaps I should have noted that the happy builder man in IKEA's helpful picture directions had a buddy in the picture without the big X over it, but the sad builder man didn't have a friend to go with that big X.

That being said . . . we'll have one sweet guest room and a whatever-the-hell-it-chooses-to-be room when I get done with the one thing IKEA apparently got right: the Allen wrench.

The New Normal

The Girls moved back to Philadelphia yesterday for their second year at Temple. They took two new beds, two new (to them) dressers, our old couch, and tons of thrift store goodness. Our bodies ache and are bruised in places you might not realize could bruise. This morning, the new normal of being a twosome again, sets in . . . Dave and I will miss them more than they will ever know.

August Break (kind of)

- Jill

Why Toy Story 3 Kind of Sucked For Me

This summer has been weird, just plain weird. We got out of school a little on the late side of June (apparently, snow and ice are uncommon in northeastern Pennsylvania), but that's not very weird. I made a list of what to do for the summer, but that is not very weird either. However, it's been weird having the Girls home for the summer. When you see Erika's photos, they inevitably have images of the Boys playing or doing something fun or learning about life. My photos? Pretty much devoid of such cuteness because I have 19-year-olds. Getting them to pose for a photo or let me take a quick snapshot is an exercise in negotiation skills that any union boss in the 1950s would be proud of.

So, that weird summer, the one in which I am in a new phase of motherhood - and one that I don't know if I completely grasp as of yet - is about to come to an end. We have been all consumed by apartment shopping as of late. What do you need? What have we got in the attic? Where can we find a cheap dresser? Who's bringing the pots and pans? Remember that list I created? Fuck it . . . half of it won't get done now.

On August 14th, the Girls will be moving into their first apartment in Philadelphia. They are living in a converted warehouse that is full of modern amenities, ones that make a slightly paranoid mother feel good about her children living in the middle of one of the countries largest cities. They will be taking our couch, their Mimi's silverware, some Salvation Army pots and pans, a rescued kitten (who really, really has been kind of fun to have), and a whole assortment of "things necessary for modern life" with them. But they are leaving Bun-Bun and Sara at home. And that makes me a little sad.

Bun-Bun and Sara were their constant companions when they were little. Jordan couldn't get to sleep without rubbing Bun-Bun's ear on her cheek. Sara and Shelby snuggled tightly in bed every night. If we left Bun-Bun and Sara at a grandparent's house, then we turned around to get them. Once after I washed Bun-Bun, the dryer was set too high, and the rattle inside melted a little. It didn't sound right, and Jordan was distraught . . . so Bun-Bun had an "emergency rattle transplant" with Shelby's Mousie (clearly not the preferred stuffie). At our mom's house, we had her stitch up Bun-Bun's ear, and she thought she would "help" by adding some stuffing to Bun-Bun's middle . . . mistake. Jordan shrieked that Mimi had "ruined" Bun-Bun, so Mom had to remove the stuffing and make things right. Shelby named Sara when she was about 15-months and spent hours talking to her. Sara has that plastic-rubber face that is impossible to clean . . . but her five-o'clock shadow never got in the way of being snuggle worthy.

So, come August 14, the U-Haul will be loaded with all sorts of crap, but I'm pretty sure that Bun-Bun and Sara will be staying put. They will eventually make their way to the attic with the other toys that were cherished a long, long time ago. And that's alright. We all go through it eventually. Cooper will lose interest in his train blanket, Erika. He'll put it aside for something else like a skateboard, which he can't exactly cuddle . . . but if you don't wash it, you can occasionally still snuggle with it and remember when you were actually relevant in your children's lives.

- Jill

When Compassionate Kids Make Life Harder (But Are Right)

I meant to put up a post on Father's Day extolling the virtues of our dad and our husbands and fathers-in-law and brothers-in-law, but Life kind of had other plans, courtesy of Jordan and Shelby.  And sorry in advance for the crappy photos . . . I haven't had the time to even play with a photo editing program (read on).

Jordan and Shelby, or the Girls as they've been collectively called since they were born, are home from Temple this summer. A friend of ours asked if they could house sit and watch their dog, Ranger. The house also comes with a hot tub, so it was a pretty quick "Yes" on their part followed by a, "For god's sake, no parties," on our part. So, Saturday night, they left to check on Ranger. We get a phone call about ten minutes later. "We almost hit an animal on Glenbrook but we stopped to check and it was a kitten and now there are four kittens and you need to come quick and help us catch them because they are going to get hit so bring a box and some gloves because they are not in a good mood." So much for a calm night in with Dave.

Not being in a good mood was an understatement. The kittens were frightened and vocal, but after about 30 minutes, the Girls caught them all, separating them into three boxes and a reusable shopping bags (which will no longer be reusable). Dave and I went to Target, bought two larger boxes and some tape, poked holes in the boxes, and somehow managed to get them all into the new "homes" for the evening.

The Girls brought them over to our house the next morning while we tried to find a shelter for them because they were not staying with us any longer than was necessary. We called seven shelters but got the same response from each: sorry, we aren't taking kittens . . . we're full. The Pike County Humane Society said that they would accept them for a $25 fee (it's a bargain and if you can click on over there, they accept PayPal donations). Jordan and I took three of them the Humane Society but kept one little calico for the Girls and their apartment in Philadelphia. So, Olive Murray is resting comfortably upstairs. She's had a very long flea bath, lots of food, a trip to the vet, and much loving from the Girls, me, Dave, and the dog. Our cat? Hates her with a passion . . . which is why Olive will be leaving for Lancaster tomorrow to spend the summer with one of the Girls roommates.

Two things really pissed me off about this whole situation. The first one is obvious: if you are going to have a pet, do the right thing and get them spayed or neutered. The probability of your pet getting knocked up if you don't? Somewhere around 90%. Dumping the litter of kittens or puppies or whatever the hell you have on the side of the road in a semi-populated area doesn't solve the problem; it just makes you a douche. The second thing that really pissed me off was that no one stopped to see if the Girls needed help. Granted, the road we were on was twisty and it was dark, but if you see a car with its hazards on, at least stop and ask if everything is alright. 

The Girls returned to their house sitting duties on Sunday evening - this time with explicit instructions to leave any and all animals they find wandering around in the woods . . . no matter how cute they are.

- Jill

PS - This really should have been a birthday post for Erika since today is "that day" but again, Life got in the way. So that post will have to wait until later this week . . . but Happy Birthday, Erika! You've definitely made my life more interesting (and better times a bajillion)!