Sunday, June 4, 2017

Eyebrow Polish

Every morning as I get ready for work the twins come wandering into my bathroom, rubbing the sleep from their eyes and telling me about their crazy dreams. I finish my hair and start doing my makeup and they crowd around me, grabbing at makeup brushes and asking what everything is as I apply each piece.
About a month earlier at Ulta trying
not to touch everything. 

D: "What's that for?"
Me: "It's foundation so Mommy's skin isn't blotchy."
D: "Oh. You put it on with a cat egg?"
Me: "It's a beauty blender, sweetie. Cats don't lay eggs."

S: "What's that for?"
Me: "It's an eyebrow pencil so Mommy has eyebrows again because she waxed them into oblivion in the '90s."
S: "Oh. Oblivion? Do I have eyebrows?"
Me: "Yes bay, they're right here above your eyes, and they're beautiful so don't ever mess with them even if thin brows come back into style."

And on, and on, with every thing I put on, until I roll up the brushes and put them away and we all brush our teeth.

I should have known that the constant interest in my morning makeup routine would bite me in the ass.

Saturdays are the worst for naps. They generally don't want to because I'm home so it's all happy fun time with Mom. This Saturday was particularly bad and after going upstairs what felt like a million times, S came down and as I looked over I noticed there was something on her face.

The first thing I wondered was what lipstick I left upstairs, because it looked like it was a red color, but I keep all my lipstick in my purse in a gigantic makeup bag. Then I caught a faintly chemical smell and called her over to me.

As she got closer I should see the texture more clearly and saw that smeared across her eyebrows was burgundy nail polish.
Eyebrows still intact but some polish still there.

"I did my eyebrows."

Ohhhhh fuuuckkkk.....

The worst part is that in order to even get to the nail polish she had to climb up shelves, so there was a lot of effort into this. There would have been less effort to get my actual eyebrow pencil. It also would have been a lot less harrowing to clean up.

I wish I had gotten a picture of the before, but of course I was panicking because there was nail polish by her eyes, and I had to figure out how to get it off without ripping out her eyebrows or getting anything into her eyes. A billion q-tips, some polish remover, a washcloth and some soothing words we got everything mostly cleaned up. We also had a very serious talk about how she cannot ever use my makeup without me.

As we finished washing up before bed and I kissed S goodnight and I reinforced again that she can't use my makeup she grabbed my hand and looked my my recently manicured nails and said "Mommy, can you paint my nails?"

Yes baby. I can. And this time we'll put the polish on your nails and not on your eyebrows.



Friday, December 30, 2016

Maybe in 2017...

I’ve really sucked at this blogging this this year.  Sometimes I feel like I kind of just half-assed it through part of the year. Or like I’m running after my life, which is speeding ahead of me, my fingers just brushing it as I reach forward at a full sprint.

Maybe this is just adulthood. Motherhood. Career.
Frosting Face - or "How my kids became the Joker"

Celebrity deaths and politics aside (which so much has been written by others, I have nothing to add) 2016 was not a bad year. I got a promotion. My children and family are happy and generally healthy. My younger sister is engaged. I finally got some medical stuff figured out and started to lose some of the baby weight (plus some put on by a sluggish postpartum thyroid) and got rid of the brain fog that came with it.

Yet with all these things, time seems to go so quickly and the days fill up so fast. Lunch hours are dedicated to the gym or work meetings (because who doesn’t love a working lunch). Evenings are set aside for dinner and a couple whirlwind hours with the twins, bedtime, some unwinding time with the husband (we will never get through the Netflix queue), sometimes more work, and then my bedtime. Wake up when it’s still dark and do it all again. Weekends are spent with the twins, extended family, or doing all the things I don’t have time to do during the week because days are only 24 hours and my body still thinks it needs sleep.

Really all my issues would just be solved if I could get a couple more hours out of every day. I don’t care if that’s via less sleep or slowing the earth’s rotation and adding some actual hours to the day, it would be super helpful. There’s lot of things I would do with the extra time, and lots of goals I have for 2017.

Maybe in 2017 I’ll get my shit together and manage to write more. I’ll capture more moments with the girls. I’ll pick up my real camera again and take more pictures with something other than my phone. I’ll slow down and enjoy everything a little more.

Maybe in 2017 I’ll get some time alone with Husband. We’ll go on a date that involves wearing something fancy and it’ll be just the two of us eating and I won’t have to say things like “Don’t touch your hair,” or “Please use your fork,” or “Chew, chew, chew,” during our meal.

This doesn't count shoes I have in filing cabinets.
I mean, who has paper files anymore?
Maybe in 2017 I’ll have the chance to spend more time with my sisters or my mother and father. Sometimes it feels like even the time with them is so busy making sure no one hurts themselves or someone else you never really get a chance to visit.

Maybe in 2017 I’ll manage to get this new project at the office I’ve been tasked with totally under control and underway, turning it into a success.

The again, maybe in 2017 I’ll just continue to chase life. I’ll do all of the above things, some days with more ferocity and dedication than others. Maybe one day I’ll get close enough to grab on to life for a second and treasure a moment. I’ll get time to stand still so I can appreciate a frosting covered face, a kiss, a laugh, a breeze or an accolade. I’ll be able to grab that second and file it away with all the other moments you keep, and when you think back on them they make you smile. Or maybe in 2017 I’ll just try to clean out the shoe collection from under my desk, because this shit is getting a little out of hand. 


Friday, July 15, 2016

Books, Bedtime and Bad Things

After dinner yesterday I was playing with the girls when the first reports of the terror attack in Nice, France started showing up on my phone. News alerts, Facebook; I wanted to know what was going on. S wanted to wear one of my bracelets to bed and D was trying to decide if she was going to wear a tutu to bed.

I finally decided that I need to focus on my twins and the precious little time I get with them every day. The horrors of the world will still be unrolling on Facebook and every major news network when they’re sound asleep. As I put my phone down D walked up to me and handed me a book.

“Night-night book,” she said sitting down next to me.

I stared down and felt a lump in my throat. The book was “Brush Mona Lisa’s Hair.”

France is under attack again and here I am staring at one of the most famous paintings in the world, which resides in the French’s most famous museum…and my little girl has no idea. She just likes interacting with the pictures.

We are reading about Frans Hals’ The Laughing Cavalier, playing with his collar, and over an ocean she doesn’t know about other children are dying because of the evil that exists in this world. How do I save them from it?

Even in bed they're in constant motion. 
How can I keep them innocent? Thinking that all it takes to be a princess is to wear a tutu or a dress, that they are always beautiful, that their momma is a princess, Daddy is the funniest man in the world, the dog is as much a part of the family as anyone else, and every color is pink.

How do I ever look into their eyes and tell them about the world that exists now when their chief concern is if I’m ok when I cough or if their sister is ok when she is crying. These are girls who climb into each other’s crib during nap time so they can be close to one another. 

As one blows on the feathers of the angels in Raphael’s Sistine Madonna the other one picks out another book. Night-night books are plentiful now and there’s always one more they try to slide in to delay bedtime just a few more minutes. And you know what, I’ll let them. Tonight we can have just one more book, and then maybe another one after that, because someday I will have to talk to my girls about the bad things in the world. Bad people, bad events, bad days, things that make us sad, things we can change and things we can’t. But right now, tonight and tomorrow, there’s time for one more book. The bad things will still be there when it’s over, so let's do something to keep them at bay for just a few more minutes. 

Once all books are finished and put away, and kisess have been doled out, they have been tucked in, each to their individual liking, as I shut the door sweet little voices from their cribs say, “Momma, I love you a moon annnnnd back.”  

I love you too baby girls. All the way to the moon and back...and back....and back again. 

Wednesday, June 29, 2016

Dropping the F-bomb

Why are four letter words so easy to say?

I mean for us adults they just roll off the tongue in a variety of situations. I haven’t counted how many I use in a day, but it’s up there. I tried to stop once but it turns out not swearing is bullshit that other people do. It’s like cooking or running marathons. Great for some people, but totally not for me.

It turns out that four letter words are equally easy to for toddlers to say.

How is it that the kids say “beek-a-poo” when playing peek a boo, but “Fuck” is loud and clear. Monkeys are commonly referred to as “on-keys” but “oh shit” doesn’t seem to be tripping them up.

Husband said in their defense we probably say “fuck” a lot more than “peek-a-boo.” I'm not sure about that, but the two may be neck and neck. My two-year-old twins are dropping f-bombs at the dinner table while I have a post-work cocktail. They have also recently learned to growl back at the dog when playing tug, which means at least we’re not the only ones who are being mimicked for lousy language. I’m sure those growls have some cuss words in them. I mean they must after living with me for the last 8 years even my dog curses, right?

So how does one change their whole way of speaking so that I don’t raise potty-mouthed children? And do I even want to? Studies show that swearing is good for you and people who swear have a larger vocabulary and have greater verbal intelligence.

Learning everything...including the bad things. 
Maybe I should be proud of them and their f-bombs. I mean, I wasn’t too much older than they are now when I stomped my foot at a librarian and told her “Shit, I forgot my puzzoo.”

Can’t form the appropriate sounds for “puzzle” but “shit” came out ringing like crystal. And to a fucking librarian?! Pretty sure that was one of the first of many times my actions made my parents hope the floor would open up and swallow them. Then again, depending on her vocabulary maybe that librarian had a total potty mouth too. She probably just didn’t exercise it in front of patrons and their small children.

So go on kids, rock out with your “shit” and “fuck” and maybe a random "damnit" here and there thrown in for flavor. Your dad and I will try not to laugh, and we’ll tell you not to say those things (and seriously, don't ever say them in public). Even long after you have learned how to pronounce the “m” in “monkey” and stop adding another “w” to “flowers” (fwo-wers), when you’re hiding your swear words from us and cussing on the playground or via text messages (or whatever it is by then) whenever we catch you we’ll tell you not to talk like that until you’re an adult, and don’t take examples from your potty-mouth parents, but deep down we’ll know that with every “damn” comes the ability to pull out a  word like “confabulate” and “largesse” and properly use them in polite conversation.  Maybe each “shit” is a direct reflection of your love of books, and that A in English was brought to us by the letter F.