Who’s Your Mommy??

Mommy = Lamest Lame Ass Around

September 26, 2008 by Watson · 10 Comments

Starting to talk & write in Twitter shorthand all the time now. Concerned that every conversation has only 140 character limit. Cannot have normal discussion. Most likely music to BeBop's ears b/c I can't ramble on like usual.

I mean, how many times can we have the same fight about when he watches the twins he has to WATCH THEM. WITH HIS EYES. His x-ray vision is not so hot these days and so 'watching them' from the office while catching up on the score of the Eagles game doesn't really work. And how many times can we argue about the size of the pieces of food we're feeding them now?

Me: "They'll choke to death! Pea-sized. PEA-SIZED!!"

Dorkus: [Returning from freezer with mysterious, small green object in hand] "This is a pea! This is pea-sized!"

Me: "NO. Petite pea-sized don'tyouknowanythingyoumoron?"

Apparently, you can have the same fight about all of that stuff approximately 100,977,883,332,778,800,000 times.

Work is so, so busy. And I have to say, I'm even less competent than I normally am on the home front (WHA? We're out of baby food? Who the fricking frick is supposed to buy those kids some food? OH YEAH. ME. Because apparently husband is totally unable to drag his ass to the store to buy various jars of mashed and pureed items. RIGHT.)

And I'm still descending to Dante's Ninth Circle of Hell (is that right? Seventh? Ninth? At any rate ONE OF THE BAD ONES) going to boot camp, but now only three days a week because, seriously? I need a day to recover. I get to work and hobble around all day, incessantly complaining, saying things like, "Oh my aching back" and "GAWD, my feet are killing me" and "I think my hip is out." Really. I say stuff like that all the time. I'm old, people, really, really old.

I was going to sit here at my desk, take a short break and compose a beautiful and heartfelt letter to the twins. I skipped month eight and since we're rapidly approaching ten months (!!) I was hoping to have the chance to transcribe my thoughts on everything that's been happening to them over the last couple of months. All of the fantastic strides they're making, each and every day, on their way to growing up and becoming Citizens of the World. To preserve these memories forever. To detail my motherly love and tell them how it grows and blossoms each and every day like a lovely lily…but truly? Fuck that. I just don't have the time.

Maybe I'll Twitter them: @Jax&Parkie Love you, mean it. You 2 r the bomb. Eating like champs, now crawling. Mama's so proud. Smell ya later. Really, I will smell you later.

Or? I'll just include some photos and put that letter back in the To-Do file.

We love Fall, even in California where you barely notice it. But what a great photo opp, huh? And Parkie adds, thank God my freakin' hair is finally coming in, it's about DAMN time.

A change is coming and I'm not talkin' about my diaper!

People, I am truly concerned about this election. And truthfully, I'm concerned that a certain Vice Presidential candidate got her first passport in 2006 and has visited just four countries. I just cannot see how this might bode well for a more positive image for the United States in the eyes of the international community.

Dudes! That just got, like, sooooo heavy! We're just going to practice our Zoolander moves and try to ignore the crumbling US economy.

Filed Under: Month Ten, Who's Your Mommy?? ·

So Bootcamp Had Its Way With Me…

September 10, 2008 by Watson · 8 Comments

…And I came back for more.

Yup. For some inexplicable reason* I decided to sign up for another month.

*I am a goddamn LAZY ASS. And left to my own devices I wouldn't do anything AT ALL. Seriously, exercise for me is strolling slowly through the gym, lounging on a treadmill for about 10 minutes, getting super bored of VH1 and then deciding to head out to the nearest bagel shop.

And that's a good workout for me.

So even though I spent all those days thoroughly humiliating myself and hoping against hope that

1) I would miraculously learn how to jump rope from one day to the next and 2) the Blond Mom Gang would ask me to join their perfectly-coiffed cabal (and they would give me a free pass on the customary beat-down most new members get!), neither happened.

And yet, I knew if I wanted to get this baby weight off, and tackle The Awning Problem, I would have to do something that made me work hard. Because really? It's not pretty, folks.

In other news, Baby Cate has arrived, what wonderful news!

And in other other news, the twins are almost nine and a half months old. I have totally skipped Month Eight's letter, and now am well on my way to missing this month so I must get my ass in gear.

But in case you're curious, the headline is:

BABIES TEETHING = SUCKTASTIC TIME FOR MOMMY AND NEIGHBORS ON BOTH SIDES

Yes, both neighbors casually mentioned, "Oh! Are the twins teething? This is the first time we could hear them."

I try to shut the window when diaper changes sound like cats being attacked by rusty cheese graters and I try to remember to close the sliding door to the backyard when dinnertime sounds like wild parrots being plucked bald one feather at a time.

I hope that the neighbors can't hear me saying things like, "YOU ARE DRIVING MOMMY TO DRINK" and "Where the fuck is your father?" and "Get me the Baby Motrin STAT" but of course if they hear the babies they probably can hear me, but I choose not to dwell on that.

I just tell myself that teething is a stage, that we will all somehow get through this, and that within a few hours I can wake up to a new morning, which brings with it a new hope, a slowing rising sun, a comforting breeze cooled by the fog over San Francisco Bay, the beautiful soft light breaking through the tree tops and the chance to shove a Lexapro down my gullet faster than you can say

ARRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG

Filed Under: Month Nine, Twinsanity, Who's Your Mommy?? ·

This Just In: I Am Boot Camp’s Bitch

August 20, 2008 by Watson · 17 Comments

Cost of two kneecap brace-like things that cut off all circulation to my lower extremities: $29.74

Cost of custom made orthotics for running shoes: $210.00

Cost of new running shoes: $119.25

Cost of chiropractor co-pay: $10.00

Cost of ice packs for injuries to back, knees, foot and for treating shin splints: $10.99

Cost of odd-looking device called a Strassburg Sock* used for treating plantar fasciitis: $24.99

Cost of being the oldest, most decrepit, lamest-ass LAME ASS boot camp has ever seen: PRICELESS

Cost to my ego of daily humiliating situations from which I will never fully recover: INCALCULABLE

Good Grief Charlie Brown, this sucks. Big time.

I asked BeBop the other day, "is there a limit to how much humiliation I can withstand?" "No," he answered somewhat gravely, "there does not seem to be a limit."

I don't know if that exchange makes any sense at all, but the point is each day is just a series of horribly embarrassing things I am made to do. Made to do in front of the Blond Mom Gang Leader whose perfect, blond short hair and super sassy work out outfits have cast a kind of spell upon me, and I find myself strangely attracted to her. Like an old, busted-ass moth drawn to a beautiful, skinny and tanned flame who has just returned from yet another weekend in Lake Tahoe.

I'm not making much sense am I? What else is new.

Moving on.

Both of my knees are KILLING me, I'm guessing from all the running and the side-to-side lateral things we have to do across the entire basketball court and back again about a frillion and 47 times every morning. And I got shin splints from the uphill (BOTH WAYS! How do they do that?!?) jogging we did on Monday. And my hip is out. (I learned that phrase, 'my hip is out' from my Grandmother when she was like 93 years old, if you must know.) And my foot is killing me, thanks to a recurrence of the delightful affliction plantar faciitis. Which is Latin for IT FUCKING HURTS.

And so I limp off to boot camp each morning at 5:45 AM, hoping against hope there has been some rip in the fabric of time and that by the time I arrive at the park my class will be over and it's time for me to go home and shower. And ice various appendages. But for some odd reason that never seems to happen.

The jump rope is still the bane of my existence. Honestly? I feel like I'm missing something. I fear that all those I have my period AGAIN excuses in junior high caused me to miss the Jump Rope 101 class that all the other girls seem to have taken.

(Incidentally, I also somehow managed to miss the How To Style Your Hair class, the How To Apply Make Up class, the How To Wear Candies Wedge Sandals With Lace-Up Chemin De Fer Jeans Without Looking Like a Total Slut class as well as the How To Grow Breasts class. Not that I'm keeping track or anything.)

I tried the one foot and then the other method, but I was a total spaz and kept tripping myself. Then I tried the jump with two feet at the same time plan, but that is also a hot mess.

I am quite clearly the most pathetically uncoordinated person on the face of the earth.

When we have to jump rope, here the sound coming from everyone else in class:

WHOOSH WHOOSH WHOOSH

WOOSHWOOSHWOOSHWOOSHWOOSHWOOSHWOOSH

like a goddamn Rocky movie or something.

But here is the sound you hear from me:

WOO – FRICK STOMPSTOMP (as I'm readjusting the rope behind my feet to start over) WHOOSH WHOOSH (YEAH! I'm in a rhythm no-) FRICK! STOMPSTOMP WHOOSH WOO CLANG (rope gets caught on ponytail) FUCK STOMPSTOMP WHOOSH WHOOSH WHOOSH (Okay, now I've got it, let's just try to keep it goin') OOOF! [sound of stumbling as I've managed to somehow get the rope tangled around both ankles] [sigh] (Is Blond Gang Leader Mom watching? DREAD DREAD DREAD) STOMP STOMP WOO-FRICKING FRICK TO THE MOTHER FUCKING FRICK

I mean really, just imagine me in my black work out pants and an Adidas sweat-wicking tee cursing and stumbling with the rope either around my ankles again or stuck in my hair or wrapped tightly around my neck, trying to hop up and down and cursing loudly and sneaking looks to see how many people have stopped what they're doing just to stare at me. How's that for a visual?

Because that image is so horrifying, here's something else to look at:

We're Here All Week, Please Try The Veal & Tip Your Wait Staff!

(HOLD IT RIGHT THERE! ! Up there, look! Link to a new YouTube video of the Watson Twins.)

*Speaking of this crazy contraption called the Strassburg Sock, it is basically a huge white, well, sock, with some strappy things that you put on, like a miniature straight jacket. You put the sock on and pull it all the way up to your knee, then lift your foot up and secure your toes using the strappy things to your leg, essentially keeping your foot at a permanent 90 degree angle. And you're supposed to sleep with this thing on. With your foot sticking out to the side or straight up in the air, depending on how you sleep!

BeBop has taken to calling it the Lee Strasburg Sock and of course each time he does I have grandiose fantasies about starring in a new feature film called My Left Foot, The Sequel: My Right Foot.

I know, I know. Enough said.

Filed Under: Who's Your Mommy??, Woe Is Me ·

Golden Girls Attack Of The Droopy Flesh Monster, Part Deux

August 8, 2008 by Watson · 16 Comments

This post is a mish-mash if there ever was one.

First, I got to see Erin and W and meet the adorable babies! They were simply scrumptious! (The twins, that is. Although Erin and her hubby aren't chopped liver either!). But it was a great visit and I'm happy they're all doing so well.

Second, your answers to my last post were HI-larious. And by 'Hi-larious' I mean completely depressing and discouraging. WHA? The Awning is here to stay unless I somehow convince BeBop to spend the babies' future college fund money on a tummy tuck?? Well, if that's the way it's gotta be.

Mama can't be expected to drag the Awning around forever, can she? I mean, it practically needs its own seat on an airplane and that just wouldn't make any financial sense, right?

Sort of related to the Awning is the fact that I (ME! WATSON!!) signed up — willingly! — for an exercise boot camp that meets every morning at 6:00 AM. Can you imagine? I don't know what possessed me, honestly. This really is the last thing I would ever do.

I hate getting up early, I hate jamming all my thanks-for-nothing-twins folds of skin into tight contraptions like jog bras, I hate exercising, I hate exercising in front of people. I think I was temporarily abducted by aliens and the pod-like creature they sent to occupy my body while they probed me went on-line and used my credit card to register me for this torture they call boot camp.

And not that it's about comparing yourself to others and judging (EXCEPT THAT IT IS!!) I just didn't want to be the biggest or the slowest in the group. I am not the biggest, but Sweet Lord in Heaven I am the slowest. There is another new Mom in the group and the first day we befriended one another because everyone else in the group has been taking this boot camp for, oh, like YEARS. Great. So we bonded over the fact that having babies is hard and we're both so out of shape and YAY! I thought, she's got to be slow too. Only then two days later as she was sprinting past me she let it slip that although her baby is only three months old, she's been running with him in a jogging stroller. Whore.

We had to do assessments on Wednesday and I was so on the short bus that day. We had to run a lap, then run a lap jumping rope and then do the whole thing over again. And we were timed. Did it bring back horrific memories of junior high PE class, when the teacher thought I got my period three times a month because I was always claiming I had cramps and couldn't participate? Why yes. Yes it did. I think I had a flashback and was suffering post traumatic stress disorder (OHMYGAWD my hair is not feathering correctly today and Ricky is asking
someone else to the dance and my yearbook assignment is late and I just have to have Survivor's new 45 Eye of the Tiger and LIFE
IS LIKE SO TOTALLY OVER KILL ME NOW), but I still had to run and then try to RUN WHILE JUMPING ROPE. Jesus H. Christ. If I couldn't manage that when I was twelve what on Earth would give them the idea I could do it now?

My first attempt at running with the jump rope was so pathetic, in fact (picture a baby cow being roped by a cowboy, only a lot less graceful) that the coach took pity on me and gave me the Special Jump Rope. For Special Kids, if you know what I mean. It had plastic bead-like things instead of just a thin plastic rope and I guess the idea is that it's heavier and therefore easier.

MY ASS.

But I stumbled and tripped my way through four friggin' laps and everyone else was done a good five minutes before I was. Was it humiliating? You bet it was. Did I care? Well…kinda.

Remember the Horribly Embarrassing Swimming Experiment of 2006? I don't know why I keep doing this to myself.

I can blame it on the Awning, I think. Each time the Awning and I get out of the shower I am traumatized. Each time I lay on my side and the Awning flops down next to me, I am shocked, SHOCKED! at the amount of extra flesh that accompanies me everywhere I go.

Speaking of extra flesh, and really? who doesn't LOVE talking about extra flesh (am I right?) another super fun by-product of the pregnancy are these new, uh, folds of skin I have. On the plus side The Girls are still bigger. The downside is that I now have to worry about boob sweat. This phenomenon was new to me. And not a welcome addition I might add. So between the boobs kind of folding over on themselves and the Awning, I now have to…powder my folds.

Yes, I said it: POWDER MY FOLDS. With baby powder. And God only knows what else is under there…spare change? BeBop's missing cell phone charger? Jax's 12,000 pacifiers that have mysteriously disappeared?

Could this post get any more disgusting?

Actually knowing me, it could get a lot more disgusting so let's just leave it at that. I will try to post more about boot camp, either here on my new-fangled Twitter thingey (which of course I can barely figure out) so that I will risk public humiliation if I puss out and quit boot camp before the four weeks are over.

But come to think of it, this blog (and actually my entire life) is just a long series of humiliating experiences strung together so that might not seem like incentive, but at this point I'll take anything I can get.

And on a totally unrelated, really random tangent, you know those t-shirts or bumper stickers that say things like: Mountain Climbers Do It Up High or Scuba Divers Do It Under Water or Truckers Do It Long Distance…remember those, like from the 80s when everything was tacky and not at all PC, remember? Well, I'm going to make a t-shirt for twin Moms that says: Twin Moms Do It Wait What Was I Talking About

And that, my friends, really is a mish-mash, just like I warned you.

Filed Under: Month Eight, Who's Your Mommy?? ·

C-Section Mamas: HOLLAH!

July 30, 2008 by Watson · 31 Comments

Okay.

So it’s been a while since we’ve had a little chat about my Lady Business.

And I know you’ve just been sitting around, in those moments when you really have nothing going on, and wondering to yourself, “Self, what on EARTH is happening in and around Watson’s Girly Bits these days? Hmmmmm…must remember to e-mail and inquire.” Except then you get all busy again and your e-mail to me falls farther and farther down your To-Do list.

And I forgive you. Because I have a big heart like that.

And I wouldn’t want your concern for me and my bits to get the better of you, you know, keep you up at night and such. So let’s have a little chat. Especially my fellow c-section twin Mommies, seriously crack those knuckles gals, as if you’re about to give a piano recital, and GET TO TYPIN’.

Momma wants some comments, chickens.

Remember those posts during my pregnancy (also know as The Time I Swelled Up Like Free Willy) when I was totally freaked out about the state of the flippy flaps? Well, you’ll be happy to know that they did, in fact, pretty much shrink back to a fairly normal size since having the babies. I know! One less thing keeping you up at night, am I right?

BUT.

I have an issue. A major issue. And I’m not quite sure how to explain it.

Let me try to draw you a picture: So I did, in fact, gain about a million pounds. Some of it was carrying two fairly giant babies. (Not GIANT giant, like I was gestating two baby elephants, but you know what I mean.) Some of it was the liver problem that caused me to gain a pound of water A DAY towards the end of the pregnancy. And some of it was due to the chocolate milkshakes I drank to ease the heartburn. But my point IS my stomach expanded to an unruly and completely terrifying girth.

And then I had the c-section and lost close to 50 pounds in about two weeks. So my skin was stretched out and then snapped back, like a huge, fleshy stretch mark-covered rubber band. (God help you if you’re unlucky enough to be reading this post during your lunch break!)

So annnnyyyywaaaaay….I now have this…this…section of skin that sits a lot lower than it should. My lower abdominal flesh is, well, sort of saggy. SUPER saggy, you might say. In a very Golden Girls kind of way. Not that I’ve seen any of the Golden Girls without their panties and I don’t mean any disrespect to Estelle Getty, was she the one who just died? God rest her soul.

But what I’m trying to tell you is there is this…ummmmm…an overhang, if you will. At certain times it looks remarkably like an awning. Like a beige and pink striped awning. (Thanks for nothing stretch marks!) Sometimes I imagine it IS an awning, like at a cute little French sidewalk cafe. And I imagine under this awning there are attractive young couples drinking black coffee and discussing politics and the chic new First Lady and her scandalous past and planning their next trip to the French countryside for wine tasting and I imagine it could be called ‘Girl Parts Adjacent’ (because that’s CLASSY right??) and then I’m all GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF YOU FREAKING NUT BALL.

So here are my questions: If I lose the rest of the baby weight will this ever go back to its rightful place? Will the overhang magically disappear? Is this a result of gaining so much weight, the c-section or both? (Well, I already know the answer to that.)

I guess I’m wondering if anyone else out there has been a victim of the Golden Girls Attack of the Droopy Flesh Monster? Will the dreadful stretch marks ever fade? Am I destined to have a flippy flap cover my flippy flaps, practically ensuring that I would need to MapQuest my AREA should BeBop ever want to locate it?

Sort of like this, only without the lights because they would get all caught in my pubes and could be a fire hazard and okay, I’ll stop.

I don’t know WHY I’m the only person who talks about this stuff, really. I have no shame. No shame at all.

Filed Under: Giving Birth Ain't For Punks, Who's Your Mommy?? ·

Another Month, Another Half-Assed Letter To The Twins

July 3, 2008 by Watson · 12 Comments

Dear Babies,

HOLY. CRAP. You guys turned seven months old last weekend! There were so many moments when I thought we’d never make it, it’s shocking to me that we’ve all made it this far.

This last month has been a time of transitions. You are eating more solid foods now and sitting in high chairs just like big boys and girls. Parker, you can now sit up all by yourself, even though we have to stay close because after a short time the weight of your noggin gets to be too much and you slowly sway to one side, so we try to break your fall before you crash into a heap on the floor. Not that we’ve ever let that happen. I’m just saying.

Jax you are not a fan of the whole sitting up thang. I guess it’s easier to sit on Mommy’s lap on the floor, even though within a matter of seconds all blood flow to my lower extremities ceases and I have to endure severe numbness followed by pins and needles but that’s what Mommies do: WE SUFFER.

On the other hand, you are a professional roller-over and should the Olympic Committee ever decide to institute a Rolling Over event you would surely qualify! When we put you on the highly colorful rubber mat made from tiles displaying the ABC’s, now gracing our living room despite the fact that it matches NOTHING and makes the room like a traveling carnival (the TRAVELING kind! Not even the GOOD kind! But whatever.) you roll and roll so fast that within seconds you’re on the floor and heading straight for the drool-encrusted dog toys in the corner. Mommy’s ‘salad days’ of sticking you on said mat and running to the kitchen for a glass of cooking sherry to start dinner are O-V-E-R.

Soon, I guess, we’ll have to face the proposition that you two will be crawling which is too terrifying for me to contemplate. I’m not at all sure my 10 mgs. of Lexapro will be sufficient.

Can we talk for a moment about sleeping? You know, that THING YOU SHOULD BE DOING FROM APPROXIMATELY DUSK TO DAWN?!?

Here’s the dealio: Parkie, you continue to be, for the most part, an excellent sleeper. You can go down when your brother does, and despite his frequent fussing that sometimes escalates to out-and-out screaming, you are able to gaze at your adorable visage in the little crib mirror you have and kick your legs a few times and presto! sweet dreams…

Jackson, you are another story. After the weeks of torture sleep training, you finally managed to sleep through the whole night. For a total of THREE whole weeks. That’s it. THREE. I was counting on something more along the lines of FOREVER, UNTIL YOU MOVE OUT OF THE HOUSE TO ATTEND COLLEGE but this was not your plan. You determined, after these three pitifully short weeks, that you should wake up at 4:00 AM, flip onto your tummy and commence shrieking. I’m not sure if you can’t or won’t turn back over, and I have no clue what to do at this point.

Your grandmother, ever so helpful, decided that bringing over some magic little plastic disks would help. Something about realigning the energy flow in your room or something…or something about underground water because she used a dowsing rod to determine which three corners to place these magic disks in. I’m still not quite sure what the hell they were supposed to do, but as you can see sleep-deprived Mommy = DESPERATE.

So after determining where to place these disks (by using the dowsing rod, DUH), she placed three of them on different spots on the floor. Which inconveniently ended up being in three very-much-traveled areas of the nursery so I was stepping on them for the next few days. I’m sure my stepping on them disrupted their super duper secret healing powers because GUESS WHAT they didn’t freaking work. I know. Shocker.

Jackson last night you woke up early for you, around 9:30. You started screaming asap. Didn’t waste any time with the screeching, nope. I tried to comfort you and rub your head and talk softly to you, asking why on earth you were so upset? Mommy and Daddy and Parker are right here and so is Bosco, and everything’s alright and blah blah blah…

And too bad you can’t talk because you surely would have said, in response to my sweet and reassuring words murmured softly in your ear. “I just dropped a load in my diaper you clueless heifer so for CRISSAKES WOMAN PICK ME UP AND WIPE MY ASS!!”

Yes, it did take me a few minutes to detect the not-so-fresh scent wafting from your nether regions and figure out that, perhaps, that was the cause of your wailing. Ah, the joys of motherhood.

In general, you two are great babies. I’m slowly emerging from my PPD-induced semi-coma and getting brave enough to take you places, where you attract a lot of attention. It’s like no one’s ever seen boy/girl twins before! Like your Daddy likes to say, sometimes people react as if they’ve just seen a unicorn with a rainbow-colored horn. “TWINS! A BOY and A GIRL?!? OHMY. Are they identical??” We get that a lot. But you’re very good-natured, most of the time, about all the attention you get from total strangers.

And really and truly, you are the joys of my life. Dirty diapers, sleepless night and all.

Love,

Mommy

Do dee doh…just practicing the sitting which I CAN do Mommy…not focusing on my sister crying in the background. Nope. Can’t hear a thing. What sister?

Is this shot inappropriate? I think hot pants is a BIT MUCH, MOTHER.

We’ve mastered tummy time, so all you haters can SUCK IT.

Filed Under: Month Seven, Who's Your Mommy?? ·

When He Said, “I Take Your Hand And Lead You To The Dance Floor” You Knew He Was Talking To A Boy, RIGHT??

June 20, 2008 by Watson · 11 Comments

Two things I have done in the last several days:

1. Gotten a tattoo

2. Attended a George Michael concert (and not just attended, but rather DANCED MY ASS OFF for two straight hours. And as a new Mom, I rarely do anything for two hours.)

To answer your questions:

1. Yes, it hurt.

2. And no, I don't know when I became a gay man.

And while we're playing twenty questions, riddle me this Batman: why is it that I cannot for the life of me remember what I had to eat for lunch today, the name of the dog (that usually comes out Jacks-ah-Park-errr-WHATEVER THE FRICK YOUR NAME IS!!!) or the correct word for various things I am trying to say at the office, such as CONTRACT, BUDGET or SNACK and yet (YET!) for some reason I could recall every single word to Everything She Wants?

My trip to LA was fun, and I enjoyed two glorious nights of uninterrupted sleep, which I haven't experienced in probably nine or ten months, easy, since the last trimester of my pregnancy was plagued by heartburn, frequent peeing and the kind of hugeness that usually renders a human incapable of turning over in bed by him or herself without the use of a large crane and a camera crew from The Insider waiting in the driveway.

My sister and a friend and I (all Moms) went to an Orange County tattoo place and can I say how out of place we looked? Three desperate housewives, traipsing into the White Lotus Tattoo Parlor, with our fetching summery handbags and kicky little ballet flats, surrounded by skateboarders sporting full sleeves of work, plus neck tattoos galore, accented by various types of facial piercings.

I got two, teeny little stars on my inner arm to forever remind me of my little babies.

I mean, it's not like I forget about them, just to be clear.

I forget everything else, all day long, and joke that soon I'll be like that guy in that movie, the one about the thingamajig, the you-know…the one who has memory loss and tattoos everything he needs to remember on his arm–Oh! MEMENTO!! Yes, I joke that soon I'll be like THAT guy, tattooing every detail of my own life on my arm so I can remember them, but really I'm just being an ass.

I have terrible problems with my memory but I do remember my own kids. Most days.

So, um, yeah.

The return from LA was somewhat tricky as I had some issues with my mother-in-law, who came from PA to help BeBop and ensure that he would not leave Bosco (whose childcare license has been revoked for excessive ball-licking) in charge of the babies while he runs out to get Chinese food.

I've now had 'issues' with my sister-, father- and mother-in-law (I'm on the outs with the in-laws, you might say!) and although I am the common denominator in all of these instances, I do feel that conflicts of these sorts are always a two-way street. And again, I am somewhat hesitant to discuss these issues in detail because what if, God forbid, my FIL was reading this blog? (Although if that old post about my pregnancy-induced anal fissure didn't get him I guess he can take anything I might dish out.)

The short version of the story is that we are sleep training Jax and giving him a chance, when he wakes early from a nap, to hang out awhile in his crib in the hopes that he can go back to sleep and my MIL would, at the first hint of a peep out of him, race into the nursery and pluck him from his bed faster than you can say "sucktastic Mommy." And when I would ask her, repeatedly, to not do this, she would promise to cease and desist but this would last only until the next nap.

And then if I wasn't sitting outside his room, guarding the door with a sharpened Swiffer handle, she would sneak back in and begin playing the Dangle The Noisy Bracelets game with him, inevitably waking him fully and rousing Parker. And when I would ask her nicely to step out of the room, hoping that Jackson would relax and get another 30 minutes of sleep, he would begin screaming bloody murder as if to say, "where is my super fun Grandma why did you make her leave and furthermore, why aren't you picking me up you stupid heifer?" or something like that.

So we went 'round and 'round about this issue of respecting our ground rules in our home when it comes to our babies, and yes, it was as much fun as it sounds. Sigh.

But in the end we patched things up and I think the next visit will be smoother. I told her how having kids just changes the dynamic of a family. (At least in our dysfunctional families.) And how we all have to adjust to these new roles we are in: I am a Mom, BeBop is a Dad and our parents have to adjust to the idea of being grandparents. This is now their primary function. And this creates some confusion at times, as we all get used to this new situation.

And how CERTAIN new grandparents should appreciate the framed photo of his three grandkids that he received on Father's Day (which isn't really a gift-mandated holiday ANYWAY) instead of griping about how he didn't receive a gift card from Best Buy DAD.

And so on I go, stumbling through this new unchartered territory, with lists of what I need to buy this weekend because, if left to my own devices, I would stare blankly at the supermarket shelves, unable to ascertain what is needed at home (BABY FOOD! DIAPERS!!), with a freshly-tattooed arm that brings a smile to my face and a new pink t-shirt that reads 'Faith' from last night's concert where I wasn't even close to being the oldest person there.

And really, what could be so bad about all of that?

Filed Under: Month Six, Who's Your Mommy?? ·

Still Making Lexaprogress. Slowly But Surely. (And DON’T Call Me Shirley!)

June 11, 2008 by Watson · 18 Comments

Dear Babies,

Congratulations, we have all made it to the six-month mark! Yay us.

Granted, there were many times when the theme of the day was screaming, crying, whining, complaining and an overall sense that the world was about to come to a horrible, tragic end at ANY MOMENT. And I'm talking about MYSELF, of course.

The fact that your Dad could go back east this last weekend and leave me all alone with the two of you is simply a testament to modern medicine and the miracles of pharmacology.

A couple of months ago I was fairly terrified to be alone with you, even for brief periods of time. And this is not a reflection on you. For the most part, you are both very good, happy babies. You never suffered from colic or spitting up or any other major maladies…besides the hunger strike that a certain baby boy who-will-remain-nameless conducted the first couple weeks of his life, that is. You really only cry when hungry or very tired, and in general are easy babies.

It was ME with the issues, clearly.

This weekend your God-Mother came to help with what we in the Watson household call The Dinner Rush and asked me if I was feeling more confident.

"I'm feeling more competent," I answered. "Wait, you realize I said CONFIDENT right?" she clarified. "Yes, I know that's what you said. But confident is a ways off for me — I'm just happy to feel slightly competent at this point!" I said.

I know that might sound weird to other new twin Moms. So many of them have been alone with their twins full time since they were born, taking care of two babies day in and day out for months, all by themselves.

To me, that is akin to sailing under the Golden Gate Bridge on a raft made from banana peels. Simply impossible! At least it was impossible, thanks to meds and a great deal of therapy, I am now somewhat able to cope with the care and feeding of the two of you all by myself. Just like a big girl!

Now you are eating rice cereal and veggies. We started with the orange vegetables and then moved on to green. Your current meal du jour is green beans. I'm happy to report that you're both pretty good eaters. Parker, you open your mouth wide when you see that spoon coming, just like a little baby birdie. And Jackson, you're getting more and more interested in food as times goes by.

Sometimes, at the start of The Dinner Rush when you're a little tired, hungry and cranky, we put you in your chairs. They are bright blue with tons of colorful stripes and they sort of recline back a little. We call them your Palm Beach Retirement Chairs because you honestly look like you should be dipping your feet in the surf and enjoying a tasty beverage. Preferably something fruity with an umbrella in it. When we attempt to hoist you into the chairs and attach your bibs, you often start shrieking bloody murder – both of you! The combination of being tired and hungry and then having us half-strangle you with these very unfashionable plastic bibs is just too much to bear, evidently.

When your Grandma comes over to help, she'll often look at me while witnessing this display and ask, "What is WRONG with them?? WHY ARE THEY CRYING?"

"How should I know??" I respond. "I just met them six months ago! I HARDLY KNOW THEM!"

This is endlessly frustrating for her. And endlessly amusing for me.

On the sleeping front, thank the Good Lord in Heaven, Jax you are FINALLY starting to sleep through the night. And just in time, little buddy, since Mommy was on the verge and the sleep deprivation was not helping. We had to do some sleep training and I am hesitant to explain what that is. For sure you will have plenty to speak to your therapist about one day and why would I add fuel to that fire? Suffice it to say, for a couple of weeks it was HELL ON EARTH for all involved and now, finally, it's getting better. You are learning how to what-they-call-in-the-sleep-books "self-soothe" and it's a blessing. Parker you get an A+ in the self-soothing department. We put you down at night in your little sleep sack and you flap your legs up and down a few times (looking just like a tiny little mermaid since both legs go up and down together because of the wearable blanket!) and you're out for a good 11-12 hours.

Besides the endlessly-traumatizing sleep training, other topics I will avoid in the post:

How the Australian psychic I saw asked if your father was 'autistic' and I almost answered, "Well, not so much autistic as maybe a little ADHD" before realizing she said ARTISTIC.

How your Daddy left you alone (sleeping) for five minutes to run across the street to pick up Chinese food while Mommy was at the first fricking movie she'd seen in MONTHS and how Mommy came THIS CLOSE to killing Daddy when she came home and found out.

These issues clearly do not reflect positively on either of us and could cause someone to summon C.P.S. and so for the good of all, I will not be discussing these matters. Nothing to see here people, please move along.

So me and my meds will be heading to Los Angeles this weekend to celebrate your cousin's first birthday, and you will be staying home with Daddy and your other Grandma, who's traveling all the way from Pennsylvania to help take care of you. And I'm already missing you desperately, but at the same time can't wait to get a few uninterrupted hours of sleep at night. And maybe enjoy the nice sunny weather in Southern California.

But do not fear, I will not be sporting anything resembling swimming attire. Because no one needs to witness THAT.

Two additional pieces of bidness:

1. Dunn Family: Where are you? I couldn't follow that link to your new blog, please e-mail me with your new deets!

2. And finally, because fellow twin Mom Erin threatened me with bodily harm asked so nicely, here are some recent pix of les bebes:

Jax and Baby P all suited up for the frigid weather, braving the chilly seventy degree Northern California climate!

While my brother amuses himself with various colorful objects, I ask you: Where the hell is my frosty beverage??

Really what more is there to say – don't these just say it all?

Filed Under: Month Six, Who's Your Mommy?? ·

A Little Farther Away From The Edge, Thank GAWD!

May 30, 2008 by Watson · 9 Comments

*So I started this post like a million years ago, but Typepad's new version is just sooooo SLLLOOOOOWWWWW, and it is literally driving me MAD.

And as we all know: that is NOT a long trip.

Because I know you sweet, sweet dears are just sitting around wondering what in the H-E-double hockey sticks is happening around here (har har), here is a half-finished post that I will complete once this damn conversion has taken place and I can actually type more than 1 letter every three or four minutes!!

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It easily could have gone either way.

Either I was going to start feeling better…

Or I was headed for a custom-fitted, kicky little (very TIGHT) strappy white jacket. (If you know what I mean and Ithinkthatyoudo.)

Thankfully, I am feeling better. P to the HEW.

I have a long way to go, but each day I notice I'm not quite as anxious and things don't seem as overwhelming and end-of-the-worldy.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still several Ritz short of a box of crackers, but I'm better.

It couldn't have come at a better time because since we started the babies on solid foods a couple of weeks ago their schedule has been in total flux, and the idea of any change was SO hard for me to tackle I literally would have had a major meltdown – or TWENTY - if we had started a new schedule a few weeks ago.

So needless to say, I heart Lexapro. I want to send it a note after gym class, asking if it wants to be my date for the upcoming Sadie Hawkins dance, THAT'S how much I love it.

In other news, I had a reading from a psychic last weekend.

(Because that's what we do in California, THAT'S WHY.)

It was at the same woman's house as http://mydearwatson.typepad.com/my_dear_watson/2007/01/index.htm

[Dear Typepad: In general I love you, but today you are creating such major SUCKITUDE it's not even funny. For some reason links appear like this, see above full URL instead of some clever wording I'm sure I would have somehow come up with. What is your damage Typepad, WHAT IS YOUR DAMAGE???]

She had a very strong Australian accent and it took me a few minutes to get the hang of it.

"I see your major problem is nuhves," she said after looking at my outstretched palm.

"Nuhves?" I asked. Was that bad?? I wondered. That's ALL I need, NUVHES! So THIS was my prob — wait, WHAT did she say?

"Nuhves! N-E-R-V-E-S!" She added helpfully.

"Oh, yes! That is my problem," I confirmed for her.

And even though nuhves continue to be one of my issues, I am doing better. And we're off tomorrow night to the same party we went to this time last year: A screening of the new Pix.ar movie followed by a black tie party in San Francisco.

Thankfully, I am somewhat smaller and a lot less furry this time around.

At least I got THAT goin' for me.

Filed Under: Month Six, Who's Your Mommy?? ·

Back From The Edge. Barely.

May 14, 2008 by Watson · 23 Comments

Why YES, I did drop off the face of the earth.

Thank you for asking.

OY.

Not to sound like a total baby whiner, but: What a crappy couple of weeks we’ve had…

It started with my father-in-law coming to visit, which turned out to be very stressful. And here’s something weird. And by ‘weird’ I mean ‘super annoying.’ A couple of months ago, BeBop opened his big yapper and spilled the beans to his Dad that I have a blog.

No one in my real life knows about this blog, except for the Blabber Mouth. Not my family, not my sister, not one of my closest friends.

And I am afraid that although BeBop didn’t give him the URL, he might be trying to find it. He casually mentioned how he found an on-line article I’d written a few years ago after googling me.

Suspicious, no?

So, needless to say, I’m a little paranoid to go into detail about why his visit was so anxiety-producing for me. You’d think I’d also be worried about the fact that I have oft-spoken of my areolas and other various LADY PARTS in sickening detail around here, but I figure if you look for someone’s blog and snoop around long enough, you might get more than you bargained for!

NIPPLE NIPPLE NIPPLE NIPPLE

THERE! That oughta teach him a lesson!!

Anyhoos, the visit coincided with my Nanny getting sick, then BeBop, then Jackson and, finally, me. Hideously, horribly sick with a terrible flu.

And really, is there anything worse than a sick kid?

I guess the answer to that question is: YES, TWO sick kids. But thankfully, Parker seems to have (knockonwood) an immune system built of steel because she was the only one who didn’t get sick.

And there’s more delightful news to share from Casa Watson. All of this family strife and drama and the production of copious amounts of mucus also happened to coincide with a downward spiral for me in terms of the post partum depression. I got so very, very depressed and anxious again.

Like I was living life under water, you know? Just slowly making my way each day through a thick, gray fog of some kind. I’m not too proud to admit: this PPD is kicking my A-ESS-ESS.

"I’m not sure I can DO this…" I wailed one night after bathing the babies, feeding them dinner and putting them to bed. Thankfully Bosco the Dog was the only one home at the time and I’d sort of pulled myself together by the time BeBop got home.

And by ‘pulled myself together’ I mean I was sucking down a Crystal Light raspberry lemonade spiked with vodka and shoving a frozen dinner of pesto cheese tortellini in my face.

(That just CAN’T be good, can it?)

Here’s the thing: This whole Motherhood Business is much harder for me than others, that’s the only way I can describe it. When other twin Moms say to me, "Isn’t this FUN?" with squeals of glee, I can only manage a half-hearted smile and meekly respond with a "Uhhhhh, sure… "

Many parts ARE fun. And wonderful and glorious and amazing. But it’s also SO hard. The blue feeling I have constantly, the anxiety, the pressure. The inability to think straight. The self-doubt.

The other day I thought to myself, "Hmmmmm…I wonder if THIS is why people gain weight on anti-depressants?" as I shoved a giant, cream-cheese laden bagel down my gullet.

So yes, I’m back on the Juice. And by ‘Juice’ I mean the Lexapro…it just got to a point where I was feeling too bad, too incapable of getting through the day and accomplishing what I need to at work and at home.

Let’s hope the second time is a charm and it doesn’t make so sick. I’m a few days in, and already feeling better. Placebo effect? Perhaps. But I couldn’t give a crap, because I can honestly say I am starting to feel better.

So that this post isn’t a TOTAL downer, I also have to say that we celebrated a very nice Mother’s Day last weekend. I spent most of the day in sheer shock and disbelief that after so many years of truly hating the day, I was finally able to mark the occasion as a MOM. A crappy one maybe, but still a MOM. And a very grateful one, too, despite everything else going on.

And the babies have started on solid foods, so we’re embarking on a whole new routine. Different schedule, new foods, the DREADED EEEEEEEEEKKKKKK! change. (Which, as we all know, usually sends me over the edge.)

So here’s hoping the happy pills do the trick and I’m able to pull myself out of this abyss.

One-half of the reason I really, really want to get better:

PLEASE someone save me from this vodka-swilling, cheese tortellini-eating CRAZY woman!!

Filed Under: Who's Your Mommy?? ·

Mommy = Lamest Lame Ass Around

So Bootcamp Had Its Way With Me…

This Just In: I Am Boot Camp’s Bitch

Golden Girls Attack Of The Droopy Flesh Monster, Part Deux

C-Section Mamas: HOLLAH!

Another Month, Another Half-Assed Letter To The Twins

When He Said, “I Take Your Hand And Lead You To The Dance Floor” You Knew He Was Talking To A Boy, RIGHT??

Still Making Lexaprogress. Slowly But Surely. (And DON’T Call Me Shirley!)

A Little Farther Away From The Edge, Thank GAWD!

Back From The Edge. Barely.

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