Please Don't Call CPS

I think I've failed as a parent. At the tender age of 2.6 years old, Ben and Emma have fallen deep into their first obsession; Nora and I have not only witnessed, but fueled, their problem. It started so innocently, as I suppose these things always do, but it's reached the point where Ben will fling himself from play structures and Emma will direct her tricycle directly into a field of rocks. I watch in horror as my toddlers fill their tiny bodies with bumps and bruises, all in the name of obtaining an an object that is literally trash within a matter of days.

Yes, I must come clean and let the world--or at least the few humans who read this blog--that my children are addicted to band-aids.

I can't place the exact day their obsession began. I do know that they've always loved stickers--the gateway to band-aids. Several months ago, after one unfortunate accident or another, a band-aid was issue; Emma may have slipped on one of Ben's cars, or Ben may have thought he had a normal sized head and scraped the bottom of the counter, like a semi truck that won't quite fit under the overpass. Either way, it was the first time that Bemma had witnessed a band-aid with a picture of one of their favorite cartoon characters; Indiana Jones had never seen such a treasure.They were hooked.

They had been living in the world of 'Toyota' band-aids, competent bandages that got the job done. With the arrival of their cartoon friends they had entered the realm of 'Lexus', where pragmatism is trumped by luxury, where the reality of having your favorite cartoon buddy accompany your healing is like having your car parallel park itself. Do you need your car to park itself? Absolutely not. But is it just about the coolest thing ever? Most definitely. In the same vein, Ben and Emma had tasted the sweet elixir of luxury and were forever altered.

It wasn't long after the first 'Lexus' band-aid that their ever-expanding cognition realized that an 'owwy' equaled a band-aid. Once that connection was made, there was no turning back. Our lives turned into an endless cycle of benign accident, band-aid, benign accident, band-aid, benign accident....

And on the occasions when they actually got hurt, oh heaven help us!

It's gotten to the point now that Emma's complaining of curious internal ailments--the kind for which Nora and I can neither confirm nor deny the presence of a tangible sympton--leaving us no choice but to offer a band-aid to soothe her. I'm at a loss. My daughter is 2years old and she's playing me like I'm a cheap set of golf clubs. What am I going to do when she's 5, 8, 12, and--I can hardly think it--17!!

And Ben, while lacking his sister's subtle sophistication, is just as fierce when it comes to determination. As he's falling to the ground he'll start crying for a band-aid, and will persist--with the fury of a PETA member at a Michael Vick autograph signing party--until he's received the 2 inch adhesive from which all comfort apparently flows.

Everywhere I walk in my house, I find used band-aids. It's gross. And weird. And hilarious. I guess there could be worse obsessions, but I still need some time to process this one.

I'll leave you with two thoughts. If you see Bemma and their faces, arms, legs, elbows, stomach, and ears are covered in band-aids, please don't call CPS. We aren't throwing our children into cacti...they're doing that on their own.

And, if you want to know the perfect Christmas gift for Bemma, look no farther than the drug store, the bandage aisle, to be exact. But remember, the band-aid must have a cartoon, because Ben and Emma have tasted luxury, and they're certainly not turning back.

SAHD No More!

If you're ever tempted to take two 2.5 year olds on a 4 day car ride along America's Pacific coast, I have one piece of advice: invest in a plane ticket and show your chlildren the wonders of a pressurized cabin.

Is a plane overwhelming? Yes. Do some of the other passengers act as if your children are the latest strain of H1N1? Yes. Will you tingle with embarassment when you're daughter announces, "I GO POOOPY!"? Probably. But I contend that an airplane trip--even a miserable one--is like quickly removing a band-aid from the arm. A 4 day car trip is like developing an infection in the arm, which turns to gang green, and eventually results in a two-week hospital stay and an amputation. Either way, the band-aid is removed. And this angst is flowing from the parent that spent 90% of the trip in the U-haul...alone...with satellite radio. I'd love to hear Nora and my mom's take on the trip!

Last Wednesday Bemma, Nora, and I bid farewall to the Great Northwest and departed Washougal. 4 days later we pulled up to our new home in Phoenix, AZ to begin our new chapter of life. I'm the new preacher at Northgate Church of Christ and Nora is, once again, a SAHM (Stay At Home Mom). Since I last blogged, our life has been a rapid succession of very impactful realizations, epiphanies, opportunities and decisions that has resulted--almost exactly a year later--in us returning to our original parenting roles.

Almost as quickly as it began, my time as a SAHD has ended. I wasn't sure exactly how I'd feel when the roles reversed again, and I honestly haven't spent a lot of time examining my feelings about it all, so I guess I'll do that right now in an honest 'journaling' moment.

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I loved my last few months as a SAHD. I embraced it. For the first several months of being a SAHD, I was conflicted. I was thankful to not be doing a job that felt pointless and ate my soul, but I also felt out of place. It played with my 'man pride' to be the stay at home parent, and I felt a bit overwhelmed by the sheer task of taking care of twin toddlers. There was also a palbable tension with Nora, because she didn't want to work. Not full time. Not night shift. But in the situation we found ourselves, it was the most pragmatic thing to do.

I was going to school and the goal was to switch roles again in 2-3 years, but for Nora--and me, really--2-3 years felt like a mountain of time that we would never scale. I was often irritable with my role as a SAHD, which compounded Nora's frustration, because the thing I was frustrated about was the very thing she most wanted to do with her life. Thankfully, Nora is one of the most gentle, patient, intuitive people I know, and she did not unleash the confusion or frustration my temperment must have caused in her. In an act of selflessness, she carried a load she could hardly bear so that I could pursue a career that would provide me with a sense of contentment and purpose. She gave up something precious for me. I learned a valuable truth about love from her during that time.

One way or another we slogged on through the dreary winter of 2009/10 and plodded through our roles, like kids wearing shoes on the wrong feet. I found solace in school, in pursuing something besides being a SAHD. When I look back on that time I realize that when I talked to people I would always make it very clear that yes, I was a SAHD, but I was going to school to pursue a new career. Such an act betrayed my lack of true comfort with the role.

Soon after Bemma turned 2, I went through a few liberating experiences that reframed my view of myself and brought calm to the chaos that had been my self-esteem. It was when I finally began to feel at peace with who I am that I finally began to really embrace my role as a SAHD. That is also when we began our domino decision making process that rapidly led from me pursuing a career in nursing and being a SAHD, to the realization that it is time for me embrace the job I was originally trained for, but was only now prepared for. Basically, I'm very content in my new role, as is Nora. Our shoes are on the right feet and the toes of our hearts can wiggle in comfort.

I don't miss being a SAHD, but I'm grateful I spent a year in that role. I have a relationship now with Bemma that is deep and wide and full of memories forged in the monotony of parks, nature walks, nap times, tantrums, diapers, and Barney. I have a bucket of diamonds in my heart and mind, experiences I was able to witness firsthand. For a solid year I got to experience every wonderful, awful, perfect, and chaotic moment of their life. I've never had a harder job, and I don't think I ever will. Ben and Emma are wonderful, and I will always treasure my year as their SAHD.

So now a new chapter begins, but my blog will continue. Writing about parenting has been a great avenue for me to decompress, vent, share and connect with other parents. It's a topic ripe with content, and being a dad, even one who works, is a journey that needs to be shared. To that end I will continue chronicling as the blogger formerly known as SAHD. :)

Maybe in the next blog I'll spend more time detailing our trip to Phoenix. Maybe. I'll have to interview Nora and my mom first, so I can get all the juicy details of what happened in our car while I was driving the U-Haul, lost in the adult calm of NPR's programming...

Tis The Season...

The first virus of the season is packing up his things before leaving our house and moving on to the next unsuspecting family. I won't say he's been a good house guest, but compared to some of his colleagues, I guess he wasn't the worst. Don't get me wrong, I didn't appreciate his gifts of fever, diarrhea, vomiting, and earth-spinning nausea, but at least none of those gifts landed any member of my family in the hospital, like some of his peers have done.

As he zips up his suitcase, I sit with the odd realization that I've garnered a sense of respect for this particular virus, because he took it easy on the ladies and the children. Nora had to deal with some light 'symptoms' and Ben did line his bed with a lovely shade of vomit one night and had several rounds of diarrhea, but he's still been pretty playful. And Ms. Emma showed little regard for our intruder, producing nothing more than an evening's worth of fever.When he showed up, Emma sized up the virus and his threats and said, "I'll give you one night of a fever, but nothing more". And the virus, who must have had previous experience with female toddlers spun from Emma's yarn, did not argue or try to sneak in any of his other 'treats'.

As it turns out, Mr. Virus really felt bonded to Daddy. I spent yesterday and the better part of today lost in a forest of puke trees and diarrhea streams; I oscillated between clinging to the cool of our bathroom floor like a barnacle on a rock, and laying in bed, as still as possible, out of the fear that any movement might shift the contents of my GI tract, further stirring the pot of my misery. At 11:13pm last night I sat with my behind planted on the toilet, while holding a giant green bowl in my hands. Meanwhile, the kids rested peacefully and Nora respected the fact that I needed to go it alone in my dual-orifice purging adventure. As my world spun, and the color disappeared from my face, a respect for the virus grew deep in my unsettled abdomen. I thanked him for choosing me to be the main beneficiary of his visit. As a dad and husband, it's definitely easier to be the one suffering.

Looking back on the last couple of days, I'm left with a couple of reflections. First of all, 'sick season' is officially here, ending--more so than cold weather, the fall equinox, or even our ridiculous rain--the lovely season of summer. Summer is such a magical time with kids; the entire outdoors becomes a play area, the sun shines regularly, filling us all with appropriate levels of vitamin D, the days are full of light, there's plenty of fresh fruit and frozen treats, and the viruses go into relative hibernation. It seems that in the summer of 2010, I took for granted the virus hibernation, which seems crazy since one-year old Emma was ravaged by a string of viruses/asthma that made her sick for a month straight, and landed her in the hospital with dangerously low oxygen levels. Yet, a few weeks ago, when I began grieving the onset of fall, and the dark winter to come, the viruses and infections weren't at the top of my list of concerns. Our weekend house guest-virus reminded me just how long, dark, and dreary winter can really be.

My second reflection is the silver lining on this dark cloud of a blog post: sick toddlers are different than sick babies. During winters 1 and 2, when Bemma were 6-12mos and then 18-24mos, the onset of a virus or infection would take our relatively placid babies, fill them with red bull and gasoline, and then light a match. The result would be an explosion of anger, irritability, bodily fluids, and screaming that could not be soothed. Based on those experiences, I was horrified to see what effect a virus would have on my fiery, independent, strong-willed toddlers...especially Emma.

I was ecstatic to discover that this virus turned our restless, chatty, independent, strong-willed, fiery toddlers into a subdued, relaxed version of themselves. Emma even seemed slightly amused, a sweet smile on her face as she reclined, one foot crossed over the other, and 'chilled' with her fever; there have been few times I've seen her be sweeter.  Ben did become more whiny than usual, but he also slept through the night, even after vomiting in his bed. Don't get me wrong. I wish the poor guy would've given us at least a little whimper so we could change his PJs and his bedding, but that kind of stoicism seems to be more common in sick toddler Bemma, as opposed to the explosive panic sick baby Bemma exuded.

I guess it's all a part of them being bigger, stronger, more aware of their world and the things going on. Whereas last winter there was little or nothing to comfort sick Bemma, watching 'Curious George' or 'Barney' now seems to do the trick.  Plus they can talk to us about what's going on, which really is game-changer, because guessing which internal organ is causing your baby's discomfort is a nightmare. I can't count the number of times we looked at baby Bemma asking, "Does your head/ear/throat/tummy/ hurt?!" And of course they would just stare back and...CRY!

Now that our house guest has done his damage and has one foot out the door, I really hope he tells all his buddies that our house was lame. But I get the sense that those virus characters aren't too picky. They'll crash just about anywhere. So, on that note, I will officially say goodbye to summer--oh how I'll miss you!!--and then promptly make an appointment for us all to get our flu shots.

By the way, I'm totally aware that this post is a downer, but what can I do. This is my life. My life with Bemma.

'Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star...'

Our family has a new bed time ritual. After the jammies are on, the teeth are brushed, the nightlight is plugged in, and the white noise is turned on, Nora and I each scoop up a child, sit down and sing 'Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star', 'You Are My Sunshine', and 'Rock A By Baby', usually in that order. The glowing stars that Emma and I hung on the walls glow with satisfaction while B & E let go of the day's activities, their funnel of energy dissipating into the simple serenity of their favorite lullabies.

It has become my favorite part of the day, but not in an obvious way. I seem to forget how amazing the moment is until it's upon me. In the 20 minutes leading up to bedtime I'm usually looking forward to the moments after the kids are asleep that Nora and I will have to eat, watch TV, read, and any other assortment of 'parent' activities a person might think of. It's not until Bemma's room is filled with the twinkle of the stars, and either Emma or Ben is snuggled into me, that I remember, "Oh yeah, this moment of the day is great!" About four nights ago 'great' got a major promotion to 'phenomenal', because Ben started singing along.

Since we started the ritual, Nora has encouraged the kids to sing along, but the other night Ben took her up on the offer...and I couldn't stop smiling. My sometimes reserved--and always car crazy--little boy joined in our rendition of  'Twinkle, Twinkle' with a confidence that made me wonder if he'd been signed as the 'fourth tenor'.  He didn't sing every word, but the sporadic 'Twinkle', 'Star', 'High', and 'Sky' that he did manage to sing were delivered with enthusiasm. When he first sang with us I was so caught up in how stinkin' cute he sounded, and how into it he was, that I couldn't take my eyes off of him, even though it was too dark to even see his face.

Emma hasn't joined in yet. I think she's still in shock that the brother who throws himself on the ground in tears when she steals his 'red car' has the courage to belt out his own remake of the timeless lullabies. In the darkness, I can't see her face either, but I'm pretty sure her eyes are fixed on him while he sings; she's studying him, trying to figure out how he can, at certain moments, throw caution to the wind and jump into a situation that makes her nervous. She'll spend her whole life studying him in that way, and in the process will probably learn how to overcome many of her own fears. Such is the gift of a twin, I suppose.

Once the songs are done and they're each tucked in with their multiple bed companions (at this point I think they each have 4 blankets, 4 blanket animals, 3 stuffed animals, 2 books,  1 pillow, and at least one other personal item) I float out of their room, weightless on the simple joy of listening to my 2.4 year old son sing 'Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star'. At the end of a long day--when I've run the gauntlet of parenting emotion--my time singing with my kids, and especially Ben's precious voice, are the perfect nightcap. It leaves things on a high note, which helps me feel motivated to do it all again in less than 12 hours.

It sure beats the way we use to end the day when they were newborns/infants: a 45 minute bottle-feeding session in darkened silence, followed by 45 minutes of earnest hoping and praying that they would go to sleep, and stay asleep. But those memories are for a blog that's yet to be written. (In case you haven't noticed, I seem to be avoiding the 'Newborn' portion of my Timeline Series. I think those wounds are still healing...I'm joking of course...but not really.)

It's the little moments in time--like Ben's singing--that keep a parent going. My unending love for them keeps me invested and dedicated, but it is the songs of 'Twinkle, Twinkle', Emma's pleas to be tickled, Ben's infectious laugh, and a handful of other random child-parent connections that make being a parent something I look forward to. Such moments in time are like gas stations on life's road; they fill you up, give you a moment of relief, and remind you that the best moments of your trip are happening while you journey.

Heroes Wanted

Charles Barkley--the enigmatic basketball player who has become a walking fountain of alternating humorous, controversial, and wise sound bites--once said, "I'm not paid to be a role model...I'm paid to wreak havoc on the basketball court...parents should be role models."

He uttered this infamous statement in the mid 1990s at the height of his basketball fame, when he and Michael Jordan were battling not only for the NBA championship, but also the hero-worship of America's youth; turns out Sir Charles was not comfortable with being the hero of millions of children who weren't his own.

I was a member of America's youth when Barkley made the comment, and it really didn't phase me. I happily thrust all my hero-worship onto Air Jordan and Ken Griffey Jr. It is only now, as Bemma's eagle eyes and sponge brain observe and absorb every word, sight, action, emotion and nuance around them, that I have a real opinion on Barkley's comment. And I have to say, "I agree with you 100%, Chuck."

Lately Ben and Emma are looking at me in a different way. I don't mean in an emotional or nostalgic way. I mean that they are literally looking at me differently; the expressions on their face, the concentration on their brow, the width and tracking of their eye balls--you know, the physical cues of the face--are different when they look at me. It started happening a few weeks ago, and at first I wasn't sure what to make of it, so I didn't make anything of it. I figured it was a physical development thing along the lines of their soft spots closing, their bones calcifying, or their vocabulary expanding. And then the other day I realized that the facial cues, and the emotional wave they rode on, were oddly familiar. It hit me. My kids are looking at me the way I used to look at Michael Jordan!! Within seconds my realization gave way to joy; but as I replayed the video in my brain titled 'Childhood Hero Worship', panic knocked my joy right out of the ballpark; Griffey Jr. would have been proud.

I was panicked because of the pedestal on which I'd placed my childhood heroes. For all I knew as a kid, Michael Jordan was the right hand of God, placed on this earth to show kids like me how to shoot basketballs, wear shoes, and defeat animated space aliens with the help of his Looney Tune friends. My childhood naivete was blind to the gambling, ego centrism, adultery, and general lack of moral character that was Jordan's life off of the court. It frightened my adult daddy mind that my childhood psyche had placed such significance in the words and actions of a man whose life reeked of emptiness.

In my moment of panic I could no longer deny the feeling that'd been ruminating deep in my consciousness since the twins were born: I am Bemma's Hero; this is the greatest responsibility and honor that I've ever been given.

My insecurities, shame, self-loathing, and unresolved childhood insecurities had, up to that moment, stopped me from embracing the fact that my children revere me. From that place in time, however, my role as 'daddy hero' has been circulating in my mind like a lone piece of clothing in a dryer. And as the idea has made it's rotations my panic has softened, my fear has melted, and I am excited, happy to put on my daddy cape (I refuse to wear tights) and teach my kids what it means to be a human on this planet we call home.

The fact of the matter is that Bemma are going to idolize someone. It's what kids do; it's how they learn. When they study me, scrutinizing the way I speak, spread the peanut butter on their toast, respond to Nora, or interact with strangers, they are learning how to behave. And if I don't deal with my issues and fully embrace the task that has been given me, they will choose to idolize the current generation of athletes/pop stars/social icons. Such a thought is horrifying, not because those people are bad people, but because they are not Bemma's parents; they will never care a mili-fraction as much as Nora or I care. If I let my fear of being a hero to my children stand in the way, my kids will turn to someone else. I'm not okay with that.

So, fully aware of my humanity, I proclaim to anyone who cares to listen, "I'm Bemma's hero."

There will be people in the world who will capture Bemma's admiration, and I'd be a fool if I believed otherwise. But for the rest of my life I will wake up each morning and remind myself that I choose to be the one that Ben and Emma emulate. This reminder will keep me humble, and it will keep me motivated.

Sir Charles, if I ever meet you I will shake your hand and thank you for placing the burden of responsibility right back on us parents. Thank you for not letting us off the hook.

So what do you think, are you ready to be a hero? I'm done trying to figure out what being 'ready' means. All I know is that today I will love my kids with selfless, reckless abandon. And when I mess up and say a harsh word, or ignore a desperate plea, I will not be derailed or hang up my cape. Instead, I will choose again--in that raw moment--to keep loving.

'Picture in Picture'

I learned a powerful truth this weekend: my kids are always with me, even if they're 3,000 miles away.

I'm amused that as soon as I write down this revelation it sounds like an obvious statement. All parents must know this, right? The reality is that I've known this truth, but I've never been apart from Bemma long enough to feel it. This weekend I felt it.

This past Friday I embarked on a two night jaunt to visit my grandma in Ohio. Gram and I share a special bond that was forged in the furnace of my early childhood. Her love has always been true and pure, a fortress of acceptance in a world full of people trying to discourage. I don't see her often, but I felt it was time to reunite, even if only for a crayon box of hours. As always, our time was rich. I learned a long time ago with Gram what I'm now learning about Bemma: she is always with me, even when we're 3,000 miles apart.

For weeks leading up to this trip--particularly when Ben and Emma were being especially 2ish-- I've fantasized about how I'd pass my time in the airports and airplanes; I'd drift away in the excitement of how I'd soon be able to sip a beverage and read a book without having to worry if Emma had broken into the bathroom and was brushing her teeth with the toilet bowl cleaner or if Ben had hopped the toddler gate and reprogrammed our computer so that it plays an endless loop of 'Thomas and Friends' videos. I reveled in the simplicity of being able to breeze through security and stroll through the airport, responsible only for myself and my belongings, which on that day wouldn't include a pink and blue diaper bag or two tiny people in tow. I was confident that I'd observe other parents traveling with their kids, take a moment of silence to honor their bravery, and then retreat to a quiet corner, snickering all the way.

And when the trip arrived, I sipped my beverages, read my book, and breezed through with my simple belongings, all with deep satisfaction. But when I observed the brave parents and their children I didn't snicker or run away. Instead, I was frozen, mesmerized by other people's children who in no way looked like Ben or Emma, and yet somehow looked exactly like Ben and Emma.

A dad walked the terminal, toddler daughter in hand, and all I saw was Emma's tiny palm and saucer eyes reaching for me. A little boy bounded from window to window and all I could hear was Ben's jumbled exclamations as he marveled at the giant airplanes. A family of three sleeps two rows behind me, woven together like a pretzel, and all I can feel is the warmth and gentle presence of my wife as our children settle into us and our four heartbeats meld into one living family.

Now, don't get the wrong idea. I loved my freedom, savored the uninterrupted adult conversations, and drank in my book ('Running with the Buffaloes'), but, in light of my pre-trip expectations, I'm a little surprised by the vice grip my toddlers have on my consciousness. I guess I wasn't being over the top in my previous blog ('Falling in Love') when I said that Ben and Emma have wrapped their vines around my heart.

The weirdest thing is that it wasn't even like I desperately missed Bemma. I wasn't calling them every moment to hear their voice or aching inside because they weren't with me. More than anything, I realized that they are at the center of my universe. Every conversation I had, picture I saw, song I heard, or place I went invariably connected back to them. I wasn't that guy that constantly talked about his kids, but it turns out that I am that guy whose family is the sun around which his world orbits. As I explained to dozens of strangers that I was wearing Vibram Five Fingers, not socks, a deep and still part of me was wondering which part of the playground Ben was playing on, and which food item Emma would be smearing on her face and hair when she ate her next meal.



From a scientific perspective, it's kind of fascinating. It's as if my mind has created a new feature that is devoted to Bemma, kind of like using the 'picture in picture' feature on your television. Whatever is happening around me is visible on the main screen, but I've always got on eye on the little box in the corner, attune to what my kids are up to. I may have been in the Eastern Time Zone, but my heart remained faithfully on Bemma Standard Time; I'd check my watch and instead of reading 1:34 pm, I'd know it was almost nap time.

It's been an enlightening experience, and now, as I soar 30,000 feet above America's heartland, I can readily admit that I miss my kids and can't wait to kiss my wife.

Before I sign off and dive back into my book I've got to add one more thing. As a dad, I sometimes hear a social whisper telling me that I should want to get away from my family, as if my manhood might wither away under the scorching presence of my wife and kids if I don't get the relief of time spent away. And while there is wisdom in having time to recharge my batteries, I reject the idea that to fully embrace my family, and all the minutiae that entails, is to sacrifice my manhood.

I have a wife and two kids, and they are my life. The revelations from this trip have crystallized my conviction that I am a family man. And in rebuttal to the social whisper, I can honestly say that I've never felt more 'manly' than in the moments when I love my wife and children with patience, selflessness, and gentleness. Being 3,000 miles away gave me the clarity to fully embrace my role as husband and father.

And now I'll sign off because I really want to finish my book, and all of us parents know that I have a better chance of making that happen in the pressurized confines of this airplane than in the toy jungle that is my house.

Yes, I'm excited to get home, turn off 'picture in picture', and put my family back on the main screen...

Stronger

I think somebody has put toddler Miracle Gro in my kids' juice, because their physical developmental seems to have grown at an exponential rate this summer. On the outside things are about the same; they look a little older but are pretty much the same half-pint tikes they were four months ago. Yet, their physical strength and coordination, verbal skills, and sense of independence has exploded onto the scene in a way that has me scrutinizing the ingredients on their daily vitamin to make sure they're not ingesting some kind of baby steroid, which would be a disaster, because we all saw what PEDs (performance enhancing drugs) did to Barry Bonds' cranium, and I just don't think Ben's noggin could handle any kind of artificial growth enhancement.

All summer I've been noticing a slow uptick in Bemma's skills--they're running farther and faster, they're conquering new parts of the playground, Emma's putting choke holds on Ben, Ben's tackling Emma, they're jumping from higher platforms with more graceful landings, they can shoot a basketball from a few feet away, they can run and kick a soccer ball, and they can hike up to the park above our house, a trek that once seemed impossible--but this morning I took them on a 'nature walk' at Lacamas Lake and I was struck by their progression.

We haven't had many 'nature walks' this summer because of the ridiculous amount of mosquitoes that like to treat Bemma like their own personal buffet, but this past spring I took Bemma to the trail at least once a week. We watched ants, beetles, and centipedes scurry through the twigs and rocks, dodged runners, hid from the big dogs, marched with leaves and on the rare occasion we even witnessed a bunny. We'd usually make it anywhere from .5-1.0 miles round trip and the final .25 was usually the 'daddy caravan' segment of the journey when weary Bemma begged to be carried back to the car. When we began the ritual I was very pleased with how far the kids could go and was especially impressed by their running stride (they naturally have a 'barefoot stride').

It was a great time that came to a crashing halt on our first warm June day when the mosquitoes rose from the lake brush and descended upon us like an attacking horde; before we realized what was happening they were on us, and by the time we scooped Bemma up and deposited them back in the safety of our Hyundai Tucson, little red bumps were beginning to show and the torturous itch was beginning to burn. In that moment I decided the mosquitoes could have the trail for the summer and we'd find somewhere new to explore.

And that's what we did. All summer we avoided the trail, and then today, as our August 29th started off cloudy and 52 degrees--which is a travesty I won't even begin to lament--I wagered that the mosquitoes must have decreased in number and ferocity and we returned to the trail.

Bemma hit the trail running...literally. A lady was beginning her run as we were beginning our 'nature walk' and Bemma ran with her for a few yards before settling into a nice hiking rhythm. After 1.0 mile of round trip walking, hopping, running and walking-stick-gathering, I figured they'd be ready for a rest and a snack. Nope. They wanted to throw rocks into the lake like the big boy who was doing it on the trail. So we found a safe spot and they threw rocks and wood chips into the lake. Surely they were ready for a break now, right? Not quite. They wanted to go check out the Canadian Geese and then throw some more rocks into a mini-valley that ran through the grass.

At that point I coaxed them into eating a vegan oatmeal raisin cookie and drinking some water. After the quick pit stop they were throwing their water bottles into the mini-valley and then going in after them, all the while trying to avoid the thorn bush at the bottom. At that point I was more than tired and ready to go home, but I also wanted to see how much gas Bemma had left in their tank, so I directed them to the playground.

I took a seat and watched as my duo raced over the playground like the brightly colored wooden pieces kids push around the metal wires at Doctor's offices. I realized that in a little over two months my children had increased their 'playing stamina' at least three fold, probably more. This revelation filled me with wonder, thankfulness, and pride. The marathoner in me knows the joy that comes with conquering a physical obstacle that had previously seemed unattainable. As Bemma roamed, I recognized that same joy in their playful mutterings, peaceful smiles and confident movements. Where once there were babies who babbled and toddlers who toppled, there are now children, little people pushing the limits of their development each and every day, and I feel honored to facilitate and observe.

I'm hoping to do a 50k trail run in 2011. If Ben and Emma keep developing on this curve they might not only be joining me, they could be my pacers...but only if there's a chance to see bunnies and throw rocks into the lake.

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BTW: The picture is from the 'blue park' and was taken by Aunt Tracy last week. I didn't have any pictures from today, but I think this one does a good job conveying the meaning.

First Fair

Cows are big!

I experienced that first hand last week when Nora and I took Bemma to the Clark County fair with their pal Macy and our good friend Kristy. We live in a semi-rural area and many of our drives are choreographed around farms that have a few roaming cows. The
four-legged grazers give Bemma something to marvel at as Barney's melodies fill the car and burrow deep into my subconscious (seriously, every time I run, do the dishes, eat, use the bathroom, wash the car, check the mail, etc., I have one of that purple monster's songs rattling through my head..."look both ways when you cross the street...").

My role is usually that of a spotter, identifying the cows and then providing direction as to which side of the car Bemma can direct their focus, although they have a great cow radar and have memorized each spot at which the cows should be located. As the spotter, and usually the driver, I haven't taken a lot of time to really appreciate the sheer mass of a cow until I was at the fair, standing within a few feet of one. Suddenly that grazing giant didn't seem serene and his black and white spots seemed like some kind of psychoanalytical puzzle designed to distract me long enough to gobble up Ben's right arm and slowly digest it in one of his four stomachs. I was wary of the cow, and I'm pretty sure he was wary of me, but Ben thought it was great.

And don't even get me started on the sheep. Those are some creepy animals whose noises sound nothing like the innocent, "Baa," Old MacDonald would lead us to believe. As we walked past their bleating cries and pitch black eyes that looked at nothing--and yet everything--I felt the maze of pens closing in on me, and when Emma said, "Bye, Bye", with her sad lower lip protruding, I gladly scooped her up and retreated.

To my relief, the bunnies were soft and harmless, and the chicks were so cute I wanted to put one in my shirt pocket to take home, but I refuse to accept that a full grown chicken is an animal to be trusted. Chickens are shiftier than a mobster at an FBI gala. The way they claw the ground and peck the air makes them look like they're about to burst, ready to cross over from sanity to insanity. It's like they just watched the colonel stroll by with a bucket of finger lickin' goodness and they were pretty sure that extra crispy wing looked a lot like their uncle Freddy who vanished without a word from the farm last week.

And on that note, I found it either very ironic or well-planned, and a little bit messed up, that the stall of beef cows opened onto a huge sign of a giant burger. Maybe it's the budding vegan in me, but really? I mean it's one thing to eat the cows, but do we have to make them look at a picture of it all day long? I'm just saying...

Even though I'm apparently suffering some kind of PTSD from the fair (seriously, my unsettled feelings about farm animals has tumbled out of me while writing this blog) Bemma seemed to love all the animals. When they saw the cows they reacted a lot like I would if I'd seen Ken Griffey Jr. or Michael Jordan when I was 12. I would've jumped up and down, shouted an exclamation, and peed my pants a little. That's pretty much what they did when they got to stand next to a cow.

As you might be able to infer, the farm animals were the biggest hit for Bemma, but they also got to ride on a Tea Cup and Emma and Macy rode on the carousel. Ben is still building up his courage for that one, but I think he's watched Emma ride it enough times with no ill consequences that maybe he'll be excited to ride the "horsey" the next time the opportunity presents itself.

Our stay was short (only a couple of hours), the rides were overpriced (they always are), and I'm pretty sure I will never be able to visit a real life animal farm, but going to the fair was a great day.

I'm realizing more and more that it's local events and features -- the fairs, the farmer's market (Vancouver and Camas), library events, movies and concerts in the parks, the parks themselves, and countless other things -- that are the bright patches on the quilts of Bemma's childhood. I'm so grateful that we live a community that values these things. In an economy where budgets are being scoured as carefully as job postings, these events provide some much needed relief and allows parents like me to give their kids a memorable summer.

I'm getting excited for the Puyallup fair, but I'll be sure to bring a decoy Ben and a decoy Emma in case the cows or sheep try and get too frisky. And the next time we drive by a cow I will pause Barney out of respect for the giant creature and his four stomachs.

Timeline Part Two: The NICU

NICU: Neonatal Intensive Care Unit

We were so relieved that Ben and Emma made it to 34 weeks gestation, and were born healthy, that their time in the NICU didn't feel as scary or overwhelming as I'd imagined. For one thing, they were very healthy compared with some of the babies they shared the unit with, which provided us with perspective on just how fortunate we were. For another thing, since Bemma weren't in dire physical condition -- outside of a little jaundice and CPAP for Emma they were mostly taking time to rest, eat, and repeat -- the three weeks they spent ripening became a magical slice of time when Nora healed and rested, we got to know our babies, we received newborn handling instructions from some of the best nurses in the country, and, most surprisingly, Nora and I got to spend a lot of hours together over lunch and coffee while the babies slept.

At first it felt weird to ever leave the babies bedside, but, after much prompting from the wise sages in scrubs, we finally believed that having some time together away from the hospital while the babies slept was not only allowed, it was possibly the best way to renew our spirits and charge our batteries for what we had coming the moment the NICU staff decided to give us the keys to newborn parenthood.

Our days developed a lovely pattern. We'd wake early, gather clothes for Bemma, and make the trek to the hospital in time for the 9am feeding. After vigorously scrubbing ourselves at the entrance, so as not to infect the vulnerable babies, we'd scurry to the corner of the unit our little ones were tucked into.

We'd always make sure the night nurse told the day nurse that we were going to be there so that we could participate in the entire ritual. First, we'd say happy good mornings to the little faces we'd never forget but were still getting to know. Next we'd unwrap them from their cocoon of swaddling blankets and change their tiny diapers, which made me feel like a giant with tree stumps for fingers. Finally we'd re-clothe and swaddle our bundles and offer them a bottle, measured by the milliliter. Under careful observation from the nurse, we'd place Bemma in the 'feeding position' with the left arm supporting the body and the left hand supporting the head. With the right hand we'd tilt the bottle to just the right angle so as to optimize food intake, but minimize gas bubbles. And then we'd hope, plead and pray for twins to eat, and erupt in hushed exultation if even a handful of milliliters had made the journey from bottle to belly.

After 30-45 minutes the nurse would call 'time' and we'd have to return our bundles to the bed and watch as the remainder of their bottle was shuttled through a tube that ran into their nose, through their pharynx, down their esophagus and into their stomach. We'd watch with awe as our little angels fluttered in and out of dozing and then gave in to their desperate need for sleep.

To recap the events up to that point, we arrived at the bedside by 9am. Changed diapers from 9-9:30ish and fed from 9:30-10:15ish. (That illustrates another thing about premature babies. Everything happens in slow motion). The next ritual would commence at high noon, so it was at this time that Nora would usually rest in a chair next to the babies and I'd go for a run. I'd race back in time for the noon changing and feeding, after which we'd usually go have lunch and be sure to return by 3pm to perform the ritual yet again. After the 3pm, there would be some afternoon napping with the babies, a little snack and, BAM, it'd be 6pm, time to do it again. At the 6pm, we'd have to hustle because they closed the NICU to visitors from 7-8pm. At that point, after a long day of drinking in our new babies and time spent together, Nora and I would return home, unpack our belongings, eat some food, lay out some clothes for Bemma for the next day and then get some rest, excited to do it all the next day.

I know the 6am, 12pm, 3pm, and 6pm feeding rituals may sound like the same activity over and over again, but they were anything but that. Each time we changed a diaper, held our babies, wrapped them in blankets, touched their toes, fed them, stared at them while they slept, or burped them, was in of itself a spectacular and exciting moment, like taking the first steps on the moon repeatedly throughout the course of a day. I never would've guessed that living in a newborn's world could be so exciting.

After three weeks, the babies got the nod from the docs, and the nurses handed us the keys to our babies. We accepted them with glee, hearts bursting to take the training wheels off of our parenthood. 24 hours and no sleep later we were ready to re-install those training wheels and move back into the cozy confines of the NICU. Our magical slice of time had officially been consumed by life with twin newborns.

Stay tuned for a chronicle of the newborn months...

Timeline

Since the first positive pregnancy test, my feelings regarding life with Bemma have fluctuated like a teenage girl picking her favorite 'Twilight' character. As I've mentioned in earlier posts, I always loved them, but my enthusiasm for all they required ebbed and flowed, tides pulled by the moons of sleepless nights, adorable smiles, exploding diapers, first words, endless words, and so on, and so forth.

I'm going to jot down a rough time line of my life with Bemma so far. Its not exact, and it's based on my alternating sleep-deprived and caffeine-injected memory, so the stories and the children involved may blur...kind of like their names. Bemma. :)

This blog is the first in a series of the 'Timeline' blogs, so if you like it, there's more to come. If you don't, well, I don't really know what to tell you.


Pregnancy

The entire pregnancy was an emotionally, and--for Nora-- physically grueling ordeal. It was a snail-paced gauntlet of nausea, stress, a shrinking cervix, and bed rest, mixed with moments of pure ecstasy when Emma would make her presence known by shoving her foot through Nora's abdomen and Ben would show up on the ultrasound as an accommodating roommate, folded in half and pushed to the very bottom of the womb as Emma enjoyed her bigger umbilical cord and penthouse view.

Mostly, the pregnancy was very hard on both Nora and I, but we pushed through because those little peas in the pod were growing and revealing their personalities, and we wanted to do everything possible to make sure they got a chance to express themselves. There were a lot of doctors, a lot of doughnuts and a lot of prayer. I must say that Nora handled it all beautifully, proving herself a selfless mother long before she'd even held Bemma in her arms. When I think back on that time I don't remember her complaining. I just remember her on the couch, face set and spirit determined that she would do anything, everything to make sure she got her chance to get to know her children.

Meanwhile, I felt helpless.


Birth

It seems that I'm horrible at anticipating how I will react to the biggest moments of my life. The days I graduated from high school and college, the day I proposed to Nora, and my wedding day all felt entirely different than I;d imagined they would. In many ways they exceeded my imagination and for the most part I reacted much different emotionally than I'd guessed.

For example, I always thought I'd be one of those guys that couldn't stop crying when he saw his future wife walking down the aisle, and that I'd blubber through the vows. But on my wedding day, as Nora floated gracefully down the aisle, I felt no urge to cry. I found myself flooded in peace and could do nothing but smile. I saw my lover, my friend, my life-partner making her way to join me and felt an overwhelming and simple reassurance, peace wrapped in joy...with a heaping side of excitement for the honeymoon to come...

Likewise, I thought I would rain buckets of joyful tears upon seeing my children, especially after the hard road of Nora's pregnancy. But on that beautiful April evening at 8:28 and 8:29, respectively, I found myself in the company of the same peace I'd met on my wedding night. As I held my son, and then my daughter, covered in the birth goo only a parent can find adorable, I didn't want to cry. I just wanted the world to stop spinning so I could drink in my children and be refreshed by their cooling presence after the desert of fear Nora and I had wandered. I wanted just a moment to get to know the serene little man that Benjamin was and marvel at Emma's bright red afro and fierce cry. As I took big gulps of their presence relief and thanksgiving washed away my fear and I realized that the tears I'd anticipated for so long were nowhere to be found. I felt the purest happiness I've ever known. I was still, at peace with the Universe, my family intact.

In the next blog I'll reminisce on our time in the NICU and the early weeks...oh, the early weeks...

Taylor Cleaning Inc.

Toddlers would make great sled dogs.

I figured that out this morning when Bemma and I were at the high school track testing out my Vibram Five Fingers, and exploring my project of transitioning to a barefoot running stride.

After my calves and feet persuaded me that it was time to give up my efforts for the day, I unhooked Ben and Emma from their stroller harnesses and set them free to roam the empty soccer/football field that was decorated with giant white numbers and lines from almost all colors of the rainbow. I figured they'd toddle from one giant number to the next, shuttering with excitement - like a palm tree in a hurricane - each time they spotted a familiar digit; I thought for sure Ben would follow the yellow line as if it were Dorothy's famed road, and he could even play the mayor of the Lollipop Guild; I had no doubt that Emma would be running shuttle sprints between the rainbow lines like a rookie in training camp.

I had not doubt...but once again, I was wrong. All Bemma wanted to do is push the stroller.

The stroller seemed to call to them, like a Ferrari on a race track, and in almost perfect unison they began mushing that stroller around the field with determination "Rudy" would envy. Heads down and legs churning, their frenetic energy was enough to turn a Prius into the previously mentioned Ferrari, and with subtle adjustments from Dad (they were after all blind, their sight completely impaired by the stroller) they covered the field in lines reminiscent of Picasso.

I jogged beside them, amazed that they greeted such a mundane task with enthusiasm, and it got me thinking. I should let Bemma do all my chores, errands, and menial tasks. All I'd have to do is convince them it's their privilege. I honestly can't believe I haven't realized this before.

Bemma already beg and plead to cook, unload the dishwasher, fold the laundry, sweep, mop, and shop for groceries, and I think I should start letting them. I could provide a little adjustment here and there to keep them on course, and before you know it our house would be a like a 1905 industrial factory.

Who knows? Before long I could have them churning through other people's laundry and dishes. I could start a mobile cleaning service and turn their energy for a profit, and before you get too caught up in things like morality and legality, don't worry. I'll make sure they are stocked in juice boxes, choo choos and Barney DVDs. After all, they are my children and I would never, ever, take advantage of them.

The sad irony of my little plan is that I'd still have to change their diapers, since they've yet to show any enthusiasm for the mundane task of evacuating their bowels and bladders into a toilet. But for now I'll have to settle for Taylor Cleaning Inc. Just don't tell the people who started those silly child labor laws. They obviously never experienced the raw power of a toddler in action.

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I inserted the marathon picture for a reference point of the stroller. The other pictures are just darn cute one of them is even a little dated...in case you couldn't tell.

Home Sweet Home

I can't wait to get home, which is a bit ironic because I've usually got one foot out the door as soon as Bemma rise from nap or night time. The quicker we escape our house the less time I spend held prisoner by their boredom as its screams, whines, and cries careen throughout the house. And their toys offer little comfort, scattered throughout the house like leper colonies, not to be touched and certainly not to be played with!

So I scoop them up and make my escape from the boredom, the screaming, the fighting and crying. I escape to a park, a coffee shop, a trail, anywhere the kiddos can be occupied and hopefully burn some energy.

The bottom line is I don't usually look forward to returning home with Ben and Emma (unless it's bed time), but after a couple of days in a non-baby proofed environment I'm almost giddy to return to our outlet plugs, locked cabinets, Houdini drawers and elevated electronics. Two days away has reminded me just how safe and simple home is.

We've been at Mop Mop's (My mom) all weekend and from the moment we arrived they found danger like a drug-sniffing dog at a Pablo Escobar fiesta, while tearing through the house like a class 5 twister even Jodie Foster would be proud of. Not only did they find the most dangerous paraphernalia in the house, but they left a trail of carnage, not unlike the famous bull in a china shop.

In any place other than home, nap times are never long enough, bed time is always a little late and the morning is -- you guessed it -- a little to early. I theorize that it's in large part because toddler humans are not like adult humans. Adult humans welcome a break from routine, but such a break seems to rock a toddler's world and transforms them into the drug-hound tornado-bull mentioned earlier.

I always think the excitement of Mop Mop's house and the presence of new faces will be enough to satisfy even Bemma's nanosecond attention span, but I'm always wrong...oh so wrong.

Home, sweet home, where my children return to their slightly predictable behaviors.

But I have to say that at the end of it the trips are worth it, not only because we all get precious time with Mop Mop, but because it allows our hearts to miss home, making our daily life a little sweeter once we return. At the very least, home is able to moderately contain their inner drug-hound tornado-bull...moderately being the key word.

Am I Naked?

I swear I must be naked.

I draw this conclusion based on the looks moms fire at me when I'm out with Bemma. And it's not the, "Ooh, I like what I see," stares that Brad Pitt might evoke, but rather the, "You're naked and it's awkward...oh so awkward," stares that Danny Devito inspired in that one 'Friends' episode.

It's like Moms don't know what to do with me and my duo. Take Sip 'n' Play, for example, a little shop that serves coffee and a nice enclosed area for the kids to play. In the evening or on a weekend there is a smattering of both moms and dads, but in the middle of a weekday--forget about it--the mamas rule the roost.

We went there this morning and I was the lone adult XY in a sea of XXs, which I have no inherent problem with. I accept the XXs with their play dates, Amazon Kindles, knitting, early development jargon and monstrous frappacinos. I respect that their precious little children wear starched matching attire, with hairs all in place and faces free of this morning's breakfast. But do you think that river of respect runs both ways? Not based on the Danny Devito looks.

Of course they're very polite and subtle about it all. They don't actually say out loud, "Why is that man here with that poor set of twins, and did he really do that pretty little girl's hair like that?"

Oh no, they give me the cordial smiles, whose chill could frost a beverage quite nicely, and leave me a perimeter wide enough to enclose an elephant. They practically press themselves against the wall while they scurry by, as if they were fleeing for their life along a cliff's edge. They seem desperate to honor my territory, afraid I might scalp their children if they bump Emma's sippy cup.

Okay, to be fair, I am sprinkling in a bit of hyperbole, but not the scoops and scoops you might think. Being a dad in a world full of moms is tricky. It's similar to being a snail shell on a river beach of smooth skipping stones. Both are beautiful and serve a wonderful purpose, but when you place them side by side the differences leap out at you, like the crazy Asian guy in 'The Hangover'.

Such is my lot in life. I suppose Barney would tell me, "You're not different, You're special? But what does he know. He's actually naked.


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By the way, the pictures are from my mom when they were at her house recently. Although it would be fun to release them at Sip 'n' Play garbed in such a manner...

Birth of a Memory?

Bemma made cookie bars today. Let me rephrase that. Ben and Emma poured apple sauce, oil, flower, baking powder, chocolate chips, peanut butter and brown sugar, into a bowl, stirred it and watched as Daddy spread it on a baking sheet. I dutifully baked the cookie bars and served them for snack, but oddly enough most of the cookie bars found their way into the garbage can.

I think Ben and Emma enjoyed our foray into the culinary arts, but I find myself contemplating more than just the cute pictures of the event or the dirty dishes that were spawned. I find myself wondering if they'll remember the first time they made cookie bars.

I'm pretty sure my earliest memories were from around the age of two, frozen frames preserved in the recesses of my mind like a woolly mammoth. I can't tell you the context of the memory, only flashes of sensations. An overwhelming smell, a stark contrast of light and dark, the feel of a toothbrush in my mouth, or the sensation of joy while watching 'Snow White'. Such is the confined world where my earliest memories dwell.

So, I wonder, what about Ben and Emma? What will be their snapshots, their frozen moments in time. I hope and pray it will be the feeling of apple sauce and brown sugar as they ooze through their fingers, or the look on Daddy's face as he chases and then embraces them while flooding them with kisses. May mercy prevail and moments such as those line the walls of their subconscious. My fear, of course, is that the sharp tone of my frustrated voice, or the furrow of my angry brow will be those earliest memories, but who really can know? All I can really do is take it moment by moment, doing my best to lay down the bricks of positive memories so that when the house of their memories is complete there may be spots of blemish, but they will be swallowed up by a lifetime of positive, uplifting and encouraging moments with Mom and Dad.

There is little more that I could think to wish for.

It's amazing what a difference a year makes in the life of a toddler. Last summer we took Bemma to the beach and they plodded along, shoving sand into every orifice they could find, disappearing into the dunes like the sun behind a mountain; the vast breadth of the coastline swallowed them up. Yesterday they returned to the beach with a vendetta, and while the sand still filled their orifices, they explored with the zest of a Conquistador in search of gold.

They shoveled sand, chased seagulls, ran away from the waves (Ben ran away, but I'm pretty sure Emma would be half way to Japan right now if we'd left her to her own devices), threw sand, and destroyed my sand castle towers faster than I could build them. Two hours into it they could hardly walk or stand. They staggered around the beach like Apollo Creed and Rocky Balboa at the end of an epic 15 rounder.

Once back in the car they sucked down their juice, engulfed a cookie and fell into the post-beach coma you see in the pictures. Ben was so tired he even reverted to his favorite newborn sleeping position.

Ben and Emma's enthusiasm and raw wonder at the world is a thrill and inspiration. It's like opening the blinds in a dark room and seeing all the treasures you knew were there but you haven't taken the time to look at lately. That's quite a priceless gift my little ones give me, worth the price of cleaning sand from orifices.

Falling in Love

I'm falling in love with my kids. I've loved them from the moment I heard they're heartbeats, but now I'm falling head over heels in love with them. If these are my confessions, then I must come clean and admit that being a parent of twins wasn't very glamorous for the first two years, and even less so for the first few months I was at home with them.

I loved them, cared for them, taught them, bathed them, changed them, held them, hugged them, kissed them and had moments when I was overcome with the joy of being a parent, but the Good Lord knows, there were many days I didn't necessarily like them. It would gnaw at me sometimes, because I'd look at Nora and she'd be all gooey, affection radiating from her eyes like heat waves on a desert road. Not only was she meeting their needs, but she was wrapped up in them, entangled in a way I could only observe, connected in a way I could only envy. But now, I'm starting to feel the vines of Ben and Emma wrap around my heart...and I like it. It's like I'm finally in on the secret.

I feel like Bruce Willis in the Sixth Sense, only I see real little people taking shape in my kids bodies. He just saw dead people. They're blossoming, developing faster than the next iphone (but without the defects), and it's cold water in the face clear to me now that every interaction I have with them molds that development.

There have been times when Nora was excited for them to wake up from nap. For so long I equated that with being excited about releasing a badger from a cage after working all morning to contain it. But now I find myself a little antsy as nap time draws to a close; I get their juice ready, set out their shoes, prepare the diaper bag, make a plan for an outing...you know, all the stuff you do when you're falling in love.

Expressions of Gratitude

Toddlers have a funny way of showing gratitude. The last 18 minutes before nap were filled with pleading cries accentuated by rolling tears and contorted bodies. An outside observer would've thought I'd put them through a round of Jack Bauer style interrogation and was threatening another. In truth, we'd had a fun and sun filled extravaganza; as a thank you they almost barfed on their new 'Cars' table because they were crying so hard. I didn't take it personally, though. I just scooped them up, changed their diapers, gave them one last sip of water and carted them up to bed. Oddly enough, they passed right out. I guess "I'm exhausted," and "Thank you," sound the same in toddlerese.

We started the day at a great park in downtown Vancouver, jumping all over the playground followed by playing in the fountains. I can't verify if the early bird gets the worm, but the early parent certainly gets the playground and fountains to himself. We were there from 8-10am--with a brief pit stop for a cookie--and saw a handful of kids. As of right now (1:00pm) I guarantee that place looks like an army of ants on a Popsicle.

After the park we headed to Toys 'R' Us, which I'm pretty sure is what B & E would come up with if they were asked to describe heaven. After searching for a water table, which apparently is harder to find than Kate Gosselin's dignity, we wandered the store and found a smoking deal on a 'Cars' table and chairs and a little collapsible pool.

After eating lunch on the previously mentioned 'Cars' table I still had about 20 minutes to kill before nap time, so I decided to let them push their cars up and down the driveway, which, in hindsight, wasn't the best idea when considering their fatigue. After five minutes and a couple of spills and near catastrophes I closed the driveway hi-way and all heck broke loose. I had to pry the car out of Ben's hands and I'm pretty sure Emma threw herself under our car and began dismantling the brakes in protest. Eventually, I got them upstairs and they completed their 18 minute expression of thanks.

I wonder how they'd thank me if I ever managed to find them a water table?

Summer Fun and Target

Ben and Emma are tucked in with their teddies and puppies, granting me a moment of silence, an opportunity for contemplation which I can't wait to drink in. Hold on...I think I hear...yep, Ben has just dumped my moment all over the floor; his chant of "Da Ball, Da Ball," is careening down the stairs. I better check it out.

I'm back, and thankfully it was a quick trip with a simple resolution. Emma had two little soft balls in her crib and Ben had none, to which any parent of twins can attest, is a catastrophe. After giving one of the balls to Ben and threatening removal of all paraphernalia from the crib upon any further disturbance, the duo seemed content to settle in and take their chances with nightmares of choo choos and cats.

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I wrote the previous paragraphs last night. It's now nap time of the following afternoon, which is the 2nd most glorious time of the day (Right behind B and E's bedtime, of course).

It's been a busy day and Bemma (thanks to Larry Fisher for the abbreviated version of Benjemma) crashed pretty hard today. They started with a 40 minute ride in the jogging stroller, during which Emma lost her sunglasses, stole Ben's peanut butter bar, and discarded her flip flop onto the road; meanwhile Ben just asked to see more cows. Relative peace was maintained with the promise of playing at the 'Blue Park' upon completion of the run.

There are several parks in our world, and as Bemma's vocabulary increases, these parks are receiving names. So far we have the 'Yellow Park',which has big yellow slides,the 'Baseball Park', next to a baseball field, the 'Trail Park', you guessed it, next to a trail, and the previously mentioned 'Blue Park', which is predominantly blue. No real creativity, just cold hard observation.

The jaunt at the 'Blue Park' was short lived, however, as the morning was hotter and brighter than I'd anticipated. I'd yet to give them their sunscreen treatment, so we plodded on to Target.

Ah, Target. I do love me some Target, and that is not sarcasm. Target is the cheapest indoor play land known to man, at least this man. We frequent another indoor play land, which I love by the way, but they charge $4 per kid. That's $8 for Bemma, plus the cost of whatever coffee Mommy and Daddy are sipping. But at Target I march my little dumplings to the back of the store, and guide them up and down each toy aisle. Ben pushes every button his little digits can reach, and Emma pushes every one of Ben's buttons she can reach. We've been know to spend over an hour wandering the toy aisles. Do I get judgmental looks from other moms and Target workers? Probably, but I'm not even paying attention because not only are my kids being entertained for free while expending energy (the driving force of most activities I plan for them), but they are learning that we can go to the store, look at the toys, and then go home without having to buy something. Seriously, gotta love Target.

After target we played with water out front, took a bath, watched some Barney, ate some veggie nugs (our term for nuggets), sweet potato fries and melon, marched around the kitchen and then took the sweet climb to nap time.

It's been a good day. I mean, how could I not enjoy hanging out with these cuties on a nice summer day?