Wednesday, December 30, 2015

My Holiday Card to You

Tomorrow is officially the last day of the year and I feel like Christmas came in and took over my life like some kind of light and tinsel-covered tornado, and then it was gone…and here I am holding the remnants of tamales, homemade truffles, an extra pound, wrapping from 1,000 toys and my holiday cards.

Not my holiday cards, but you get the idea.
Yep, I didn’t send holiday cards this year. I bought them, but I just never really got around to it.

Months ago I made the proud declaration that my family was going to get together and we would do pictures that didn’t suck to the level that they were OK for a holiday card. Each weekend I would think of these pictures and how I really need to bathe the twins and get them to sit still for 20 seconds, and then the thought would leave and move on with whatever else was going on in my life. Some days I would dismiss the thought because I was tired, the kids were dirty, I didn’t feel like fighting with them, someone is cutting a tooth and drooling, I don’t want to do laundry and there’s nothing clean so they spent all Saturday in their jammies…

Jesus, I’m exhausted just thinking about it.

Finally at the beginning of December I gave in to the reality that the whole photo card thing is never happening, I’m just not that adult yet, and I picked up a box of cards at Target. For weeks they sat on the dining room table so that I could write them out and send them.

I’ll do it at night
I’ll take them to work and do it on lunch
I’ll write them while watching TV Saturday night
I’ll write them after wrapping presents cause then I’ll really be in the Christmas spirit (this one failed worst of all)

Someone is about to have a meltdown and this is
why we can't take nice pictures. 
Eventually Husband got tired of looking at them, knew I wasn’t going to send a freaking card to anyone, and put them in our office for next year.

Pretty sure I just failed Adult 101. Not only can I not get the obligatory “Look, we’re all still here,” Mom holiday card out the door, but I can’t get any holiday cards out. Not even one. My parents and sisters didn’t even get one. I’m pretty sure I’ve done better than this in previous years.

Maybe it’s the job, or the kids, or some combination of it all. Maybe it’s the fact that I’d rather crawl around on the floor with my kids and binge watch Jessica Jones when they go to bed than write out Christmas cards. Maybe I just can’t figure out how to be a real adult and it’s my subconscious’ way of giving two middle fingers to the establishment of my mind and my mid-30s.

More than likely though it’s because I’m sometimes just not motivated. Because sometimes, despite the job and house and kids and the fact that I never leave the house without makeup, I’m a mess who can’t totally get her shit together. So, whether or not I know you personally, regardless of what holiday you celebrate and where you are celebrating, consider this my holiday card to you. Happy Holidays and have a Happy New Year.


Tuesday, December 22, 2015

Carting the Kids

Lots of stuff about having toddlers is challenging. Like keeping your clothes clean and making sure they don’t eat the dog kibble.  Another challenge that seems to not be getting better is shopping.

The first problem is that anywhere we go seems to have only two double carts, both of which are currently being used by someone who has one child and a giant purse that obviously needs its own seat. At Target the don’t even get the excuse that the cart is shaped like a car and Little Timmy was having a meltdown if he didn’t get to ride in the car. Nope. Target has this monstrosity of a double cart that is an extender with two seats facing forward with a basket on the front. It looks like you’re pushing the kids on a roller coaster, except that there’s no rails, the thing can’t turn for shit and it’s not at all fun.

Considering that it’s never available, I guess I can’t really complain about it.

Instead I make the choice to put one in the seat and one in the basket. That was great until D got crowded and started launching things out of the cart in protest. Or when S opened the box of Cheerios and was chewing on the top of a bottle of Listerine while I’m trying to find the best price on paper towels. Plus there’s the whole safety thing about them standing and pitching out of the cart, or a sudden start and they go flying into a pile of stuff and bonk their head on a bottle of lotion or the cart itself. We’ve already had one cart induced injury that resulted in crying that could only be quieted with a snack.

Basically this setup is guaranteeing your child will cry in Target, which is pretty much already guaranteed, so now everybody cries twice.

Target, if there’s 2 kids in a cart crying, it’s your own fault for not having better carts.

if i don't get to the car soon that tissue paper will be toast.
When they were smaller I used to use the Buggy Bench, which is ingenious, and the inventor was a twin mom who had to go to the store and was apparently tired of cart shenanigans. It’s a semi structured fabric seat that straps onto any cart, adding a second seat. The downside is it takes up about 50% of your cart space and gives your child the opportunity to stomp all over the bag of frozen vegetables that slid under their feet. God help you if that happens to a package of ground beef or a container of body wash that can’t handle the pressure of the toddler stomp. There’s also an increased chance of hair pulling, but I’m chalking that up to toddlers and not the seating arrangement.

The other issue with the Buggy Bench is that everyone wants to stop and talk about it. Considering it takes an extra 20 minutes to do anything anyway just based on twin questions (yes, I am aware they aren’t identical) the bench will add another five. I should really just start carrying business cards because all moms of two small children, regardless of whether or not they birthed them on the same day, are fascinated by anything that may assist in making their lives a little easier and further restrain their children.

This weekend of that whole convenience went to hell of course when S decided she was going to try and get out. Luckily she couldn’t but D could from the regular seat (and of course the seat belt was broken), and so began a negotiation through Target about bouncing in seats instead of standing. I must have looked like a lunatic walking through the store bouncing up and down while pushing the cart with two manically laughing children who were covered in graham cracker crumbs.

What has happened to my life that I don’t even care about looking like an ass anymore?

I also can’t be the only one who has this issue with carts, two small children and nothing ever working. If it’s not a crazy wheel, it’s a broken belt, or crying child, or any other number of things that make what will already be a long, expensive trip even more long and possibly more expensive. Also, you will need to feed multiple snacks to keep them from totally revolting, which means cracking open that box of Cheerios while walking down the booze aisle hoping a good bottle of wine is on sale.

One day this won’t be a thing anymore and they’ll be actually walking on their own, too big for the cart, and I’ll be chasing them through the store into clothing displays and really, really missing that buggy bench, but until then, this is my life; multi-snack meltdowns and all.

Monday, December 7, 2015

Fighting Back to Pre-baby Body

I am not one of those women who looked at my post baby body and thought “My body did something amazing.”

Nope. I looked at my post baby body and wondered what in the ever loving hell happened. Why was my waist gone, where is that curve between by butt and my back, and for the love of all things holy, where did all this back fat come from?! It did something amazing in making twins, but it also paid a price. 

I’ve never been a skinny girl. Instead I have always been the curvy girl who is always one bag of Cheetos away from chubby. In college I crossed over that line straight to fat, and then fought my way back. Post baby I decided to avoid mirrors and let breastfeeding do its thing. Except that it didn’t. 

Thanks for the false hope world. I am one of those women whose body wants to hold onto every damn calorie for the baby (or in my case babies). At least I’ve got Salma Hayek in my corner on that one.

I don't know why I bother to try to take pictures
with toddlers anyway. 
With those hopes dashed around month six, and still kinda fat, I just threw in the towel and decided to wait until I was done breastfeeding. Then it turns out I had to wait another six months for my body to “return to normal.” That’s what the doctor told me. He stopped short of saying “twins fuck you up,” but I could tell that’s where he was going.

Nine months on, nine months off my ass. The girls will be two in March and I’m hoping to be back to pre-pregnancy by then, and if I am it’s because I worked my ass off in the gym in one hour intervals during my lunch hour. And if I’m not I’ll blame it on the hormones that linger from gestating, birthing and breastfeeding babies. Everyone is so damn eager to tell you all about how much birth hurts, but they make that whole “bouncing back” thing sound like a breeze.

I’m apparently one of the ones who needs to claw their way back. Through back fat and blown out ab muscles. Back muscles that just gave up at some point and a metabolism that decided to go on an extended vacation. It was so bad at one point I actually went to the doctor to find out what was wrong with me. The answer: I had babies. (I'm not kidding, this was actually the answer they gave me). 

The good news is you do eventually start to feel like yourself again. Finally some of my old clothes are fitting. The curve in my hips is more of a curve and less of a saddle bag. I’ve also figured out how to better dress like myself in this new size. How to better hide that extra tummy I have, what kind of fabrics are the most flattering and where to buy Spanx in bulk. 

Most importantly though I've realized that while I'm waging a personal battle with my view of myself I shied away from the camera. Suddenly I realized that there are tons of pictures of my girls and none of me and the girls, and that's not fair to them. I want them to look back and see pictures of us all having fun, laughing and making memories because while I will worry about how fat my arm looks in a picture, they'll just smile and see a picture of themselves with their mom. 


Tuesday, November 17, 2015

Screaming for Shoes

Trips to Target are practically a weekend ritual at this point. I obviously need laundry detergent, hand soap and a new coat all at once, and it’s a one stop shop for almost everything.

This weekend I tossed the girls onto a cart, one in the seat and one in the basket, and headed inside (where I found the only double cart occupied by one kid). I gave a brief look through the clothes and where they leaned out of the cart in an effort to touch everything, and we headed to the shoe aisle.

Cute stuff but nothing earth shattering, let’s move along.

They really liked these
Oh, S needs winter boots, let’s check those out here.

As I slowly navigated the cart into the children’s shoe aisle both girls started getting visibly excited. They stood up in the cart, leaned over, and then both started yelling “SHOES, SHOES!!!” in screechy toddler voice while desperately grabbing at all the shoes they could reach.

S pulled her shoes off and threw them to the floor. The loafers with the dogs on them were way better, sizes be damned (and never mind that she can’t put her own shoes on) . D took off one shoe, and then realizing she couldn’t reach anything began to cry, standing in the cart with one sock foot. I handed their own shoes back to them and all shoes were promptly cast to the floor again. The shoes they loved so dearly a month ago were now total garbage in their minds.

I found a pair of black ankle boots (which are not what we were looking for) that were on clearance and tried them on S. They were a touch big (she has the larger feet between the two) but they should be fine in the next month the way the kid is growing, so I started to take them off and she started to scream.

Let’s just pause here for a minute and talk about screaming. I don’t mean she started to cry. I mean scream. And I don’t mean cry-scream, I mean someone is attacking her scream. This kid could be a horror film soundtrack with that ear-piercing howl that erupts when something doesn’t go her way.
Just wear the shoes and stop screaming.

In an effort to minimize the scene we have already made with the carnage of dropped shoes, yelling the obvious (SHOES!!!) and screaming, I out both shoes on her, still attached to one another via the stretchy band, and we moved right along to the ice cream aisle.

For the record, ice cream is way less interesting than shoes and everything else was so much less eventful than when we were in the shoe aisle.

I have to admit to sympathizing with them. Walking into the State Street Nordstrom Rack kind of makes me want to run up and down the aisles, grabbing things while yelling "shoes!" Throwing them up in the air and letting them rain list confetti on me.

Note: In this fantasy that wouldn't hurt like getting hit with a shoe in real life.

But seriously kids, get ahold of yourselves. We don't actually do those kinds of things in polite society. Yes, I have the urge to lick the window of John Fluevog whenever I walk past, but I don't because that's weird and someone may call the cops. And germs, but mostly polite society. You can't just go around acting like a maniac whenever you're excited. Or you can because you're a toddler and in an effort to make you stop screaming Mom bought you shoes.

Well played little brats.

How these two came to care about shoes that much is beyond me. It’s not like they have a closet overflowing with shoes. They have play shoes and dress shoes. That’s it. No in between shoes. No choices in colors of play shoes. They have black DCs to play in and glitter Mary Janes (from Target and OshKosh), and now the ankle boots. The snow boots D will wear are hand me downs she hasn’t even seen yet, so really kids, what’s with the obsession with shoes? Is the love of shoes genetic, or is it the fact that it’s one of the few words they can say? Then again, they also say “duck” and we don’t have a meltdown in the bath aisle. Perhaps they heard me talking about shoes and the loss of my legions of lovely shoes while still in utero. Or maybe they just happen to be total girls who love something that they can touch.

The fact that there’s a good chance sparkles are also included can’t hurt either.

Friday, November 6, 2015

Sounding Crazy

Daylight savings time is nothing to parents. Except maybe a pain in the ass. It’s just another day where things are all screwed up from the first squawk out of the baby monitor, which is an hour earlier than they normally wake up no matter what kind of crazy voodoo you’ve been trying to work the previous week to make sure they’re on a schedule.

This year was particularly bad on Sunday. Maybe it was a Halloween hangover or something, but I walked in the twins’ room and S, who is the Houdini of diapers, is rocking the deep v Elvis look and I marvel at how cute she is before realizing the reason she looks like that is because she has figured out how to work zippers overnight and taken her wet diaper off.

What the hell is she doing?
The whole day pretty much stayed on that trajectory and I found myself saying some really insane things.

“Stop coloring on your sister.”
“Why is there ham on the dog?”
“Who pooped?”
“Did you seriously just poop in the tub?” (She did. My bathroom has never been cleaner).
“No, you cannot play with dirty Kleenex.” (This was said to a kid and the dog).
“What the hell are you doing? Quit playing with the mower.”
“Stop kissing the Welcome mat.”
“Where is your diaper?”
“Fine, be naked.”
"That's not hugging, it's choking."

Who am I? I can't decide if I sound like a crazy person, a mother, or my mother. Those last three may be all the same thing (love you mom).

Parenting is fun. I think. Maybe I'm just tired and delirious.  I would like that hour of sleep back that they robbed me of. And also maybe a drink.


Thursday, October 15, 2015

Housebreaking the Kids

I've come to the conclusion that toddlers have a lot in common with pets. Both are entertaining, loving and generally mischievous. Especially the toddlers. 

The second you're not looking is when they get into something, and with twins it's really easy to not have one in your sights at all times, which means someone is into something at all times.

  • One kid is trying to dig in her diaper, so you focus on that one and preventing the impending gross event and the other one is eating a dog treat. 
  • One is running around with a dirty sock in their mouth, and while you’re trying to catch them the other one is chewing on a book. 
  • One has managed to open a container of wipes and is pulling them all out and the other one is dumping out a toybox. 
We may be spending too much time playing
with the dog if this is how we carry toys.

I could go on, but you get the idea.

There’s more too.  One minute they’re all fun and cuddly, and want to sit on your lap, and the next they’re screaming to get down and run around like assholes even though you've told them to stop running 128 times in the last 10 minutes. They come over an randomly drop toys in your lap, spit out food, play with things that aren’t toys, put random shit they find on the floor or ground in their mouth, lick things, lick each other, bite...

Ironically, Thor, my seven year-old Chihuahua is often better behaved than the girls. Initially weary of them he has new friends in them as toddlers. They often chase one another around the living room and the girls bring him his toys so he can play when they play, they share their snacks, taught him how to eat out of a snack cup (which sometimes gets caught on his nose) and they feed him the treats he hides around the house when they find them.

My sister's reaction to this was,
"My cat does the same thing.'
Kids and animals also find something magical about the bathroom, and it’s apparently the toilet. The magical porcelain water holder.  Not so much my dog because he’s short, but my twins have been enchanted with the toilet since they could walk. Of course the immediately want to stick their hand in it and touch it. Then we started introducing the potty so they can get out of diapers as soon as humanly possible, and they understand it flushes and want to say “bye” and wave as the water goes down.

A few weeks ago I was escorting them upstairs for a nap, when S got to the top first and was running around the upstairs, which of course included the bathroom. When I walked in I found her hollering “guck, guck!” as she tossed rubber ducks into the toilet for an afternoon swim. As I cringed, plunged my hand into the toilet to take out said ducks and wonder what the hell has become of my life, D started running around the bathroom waving a dirty Kleenex above her head like a flag.

Seriously kids are so gross. Animals are gross. I have both.  What is wrong with me?

Eventually I know the kids will grow up (be housebroken) and stop putting everything they pick up that looks like it may have at one time been edible into their mouth. They will start actually using their forks instead of just holding it in one hand while shoveling food into their mouth with the other hand, and they will stop shitting their pants and start using the toilet to go to the bathroom and not as a swimming pool for rubber “guks.” And as much as I never ever want to plunge my hand into toilet water again or stick my finger into a mouth to scoop out some mystery object (usually dog treats), even thinking about them being just that much more grown up makes me kind of sad. Luckily I still have that gross dog to drop drool covered toys on me, steal Kleenex from the bathroom trash can, and spit kibble all over the kitchen floor.

Tuesday, September 29, 2015

Changing the Routine: Tyrant Toddlers and Drunks

I should just give up entirely on writing about something interesting and instead just write about my everyday life. It goes like this:

  • Wake up when it’s dark
  • Shower, get dressed do hair and makeup
  • Take out the dog (This gets its own line because the dog is so freaking slow in the morning I have to block out 10 minutes for him to pee). 
  • Go to work and work all day (If I'm lucky I get a lunchtime workout in)
  • 11 hours later I get home, eat dinner, play with kids and put kids to bed (this is all about an hour and a half)
  • Watch TV and talk with hubby
  • Go to bed
  • Repeat

I could never make a dinner like this.
Not pictured: a glass of wine
I’m going out on a limb here and saying that my schedule looks pretty much like every other working mom’s schedule in the entire world, except that I’m really lucky in that I don’t have to take the kids to daycare or cook dinner. Husband stays home with them and cooks. I used to cook when he worked a million hours a week in an office, but it turns out I’m not a good cook, and so when the opportunity to work from home and not eat my cooking was available he jumped at it. I’m much better at drinking wine than cooking with it. Plus you don’t usually put wine in Hamburger Helper.

Sometimes I do the dishes, but that generally just pisses him off because I don’t do it “his way” or I put things back in the wrong place.

We’ve struck a balance with the kids and housework and going to work and it was working great for everyone. And then the girls turned into toddlers. Now the game has changed.

Where we used to have nice, quiet little girls who would play with toys, we now have 18-month-old monsters who know a dozen words, can climb things like lightning-fast monkeys, have obviously likes and dislikes, and those likes and dislikes change daily (or hourly). One has decided to fight us at every nap and bedtime. The other yells the second she is hungry. Both are independent, though one will let you help and the other won’t. At home they will hold hands and give kisses. In public they will run around like assholes, ignoring you, and scream bloody murder as soon as you pick them up.

Cupcake facial mask. 
Sometimes I am convinced that all the drinking I did with friends in my 20s was some kind of parenthood training. Sometimes they’re happy, then crying, then distracted, then asleep. They peed on their feet and may or may not vomit on any given day. For some reason at least one of them is never wearing pants. If they eat, there’s a 100% chance there is food in their hair and a 110% chance there is food on the floor. As soon as they’re done crying they love you even though they just hated you, and then they just pass out.

This weekend, after wresting them into their pajamas and carrying them upstairs, one under each arm like screaming footballs, I put them in their cribs. Later I admitted to Husband that I didn’t brush their teeth because I just couldn’t take another fight. He shrugged and said, “Who hasn’t gone to sleep without brushing their teeth?”

Yep, we’ve all done it. Especially after a long night out. Maybe my friends just partied a little too hard, but there were definitely some nights I let a friend fall asleep with their shoes still on. Drunks and toddlers. Eerily similar. The biggest difference is that these two are not going anywhere and each morning when I wake up after a few precious hours of sleep, I peek in on them before I go to work and they are precious, sleeping angels and I already can’t wait to come home and do it all over again, and if there happens to be a cocktail waiting when I walk in the door, even better.

Wednesday, September 16, 2015

Adulting in Logical Shoes

Once upon a time I walked everywhere in heels. And I mean everywhere. I would walk miles in platforms or 5 inch stilettos. Sometimes 5 inch platform stilettos. I took the bus and train in heels. I wore heels in rain, snow, sleet, day, night. If needed I could run in heels. More than a couple times I fell asleep still wearing heels.

In my late 20's I slowly started favoring shorter or thicker heels heels when I knew walking was going to be a thing. Then I found myself worrying about things like the pitch of the shoe, the level of the platform or lack thereof and whether or not my foot slid forward after hours of wear. Slowly I found myself favoring certain styles and spending more money on one good pair of heels than two or three shitty ones. Slowly I found a cobbler I love and started worrying about what kind of materials were used to make my shoes and what type on insole they have.

Slowly I was getting older.

Under my desk used to be empty. Now it's full
of shoes for every occasion. 
Having just celebrated by thirty-somthingth birthday and being securely settled into the mid-thirties, I find myself walking about a mile to the office from the train every day. I find myself chasing after toddlers who don’t give a rat’s ass whether or not you can wear heels on the grass. I find myself traipsing all over multiple floors of a downtown skyscraper, going to the gym at lunch and then walking a mile back to the train.

You know what’s awful for all these activities? Heels.

Sure, I still wear them in the office and to meetings. Sometimes I wear them through the airport so I can go straight off the plane to the office. I wear them when I go out with friends or my husband. I wear them shopping and whenever I’m not with my girls, but I am much pickier about what kinds of shoes I wear now.

I was talking to a colleague about shoes the other day and how the heels of your 20s retire and become more logical, more expensive, and are worn less often once you start to realize things like cheap shoes are bad for your feet, frostbite is not your friend and can do permanent damage, the sidewalk grates in Chicago are heels worst enemy, and there is no good way to ride a rush hour bus or El in heels if you don’t have a seat.

I still don’t fully embrace this new, logical, adult me who just bought a pair of supportive and logical walking shoes for those one mile speed walks to and from the train everyday. I still kind of hate the Sperry deck shoes I bought because they were a cute, sensible summer shoe to wear out with my girls. I shudder when I lace up my low wedge gladiators because there’s a sky-high pair that have only been worn four times this summer because it’s just not logical for me to be almost 6 feet tall to go to the park. I shed a tear when I think about all the shoes I don’t buy because they just don't make any damn sense in this new reality of being an adult.

I guess this is all part of growing up though. Everyone told me it was coming when they would say ‘I don’t know how you can walk in those,” and “Just wait until your my age.” Well, I’m not quite that age yet, and I’m not ruling anything out, but it’s my plan to keep rocking heels for decades to come. They may get shorter, or more comfortable. Hell, maybe my entire work shoe collection can consist of Cole Haan Nike Air heels (seriously, you can run in them), but I hope that I’ll still have some shoes that make people stop and stare. And leopard. Every woman should own at least one pair of leopard heels. Also snakeskin. If I have to be an adult I'm at least going to keep it interesting. 

Thursday, August 20, 2015

Office Upgrade, Decorating Fail


This year I got an office for my birthday.

OK, so it wasn’t actually for my birthday, but the day before my birthday the IT guy came over and moved my computer and phone, gave me a bigger monitor and a keyboard with one shift key that only works if you punch the hell out of it, and I had to gather up my piles of paper and my drawer of shoes (how does that keep happening?) and moved into my own private space.

Now I have a door and can shut it for conference calls, or so I can eat lunch in private.

Now I can hang my coat on the back of the door instead of in the community coat closet where it comes out smelling of other people’s perfumes, cigarettes and other general odors.
This would be a great picture if someone wasn't crying
and everyone would look at the camera. 

Now I have four white walls staring at me, reminding me that I’m a crappy mom who can’t get her shit together and get some damn photos of her kids for her office.

I have a phone that is bursting with photos. There’s pictures of those kids sleeping, eating (they eat a lot), rolling around on the floor, looking at something outside, sitting on the potty, sitting in the bath, playing with other kids, playing alone, playing with each other, fighting, laughing, crying… and those were all taken in the past month.

Somehow despite all those photos I haven’t managed to buy any frames, upload them to Snapfish and have them printed. I can even have them delivered to the office. Or I heard the Walgreens app is good. My boss said if I do that she will walk to the Walgreens a block from my office and pick them up for me so that I have pictures in my office like a normal person. I walk past that Walgreens twice a day on my commute and I haven’t had those pictures printed.

This is all a very, very serious Mom Fail.

Chocolate cake. These kids are gross, I wouldn't put this pic up.
I guess part of it is that I have never been one to decorate my workspace. Then there’s the whole thing where I would actually have to take the time to sit down and sift through the eight billion photos I’ve taken of the twins since they were born 17 months ago. I just really suck at that whole photo thing despite the fact that I love photography and taking pictures. It’s the print part I seem to have issues with.

It’s that extra step. Plugging the camera in and uploading the photos somewhere. Placing the order. It takes time that I don’t have because “uploading photos” never becomes a calendar appointment in my phone.

I guess ultimately, photos are just something that’s never really been a priority. Everything in our house that’s framed, hung, decorated and otherwise not a wreck was taken care of by my husband. He hates having things half done or sitting around in some kind of limbo. It’s how our house got unpacked in a weekend and we have things planned out until the end of the year.

Maybe I should just put him in charge of getting photos for my office. The whole thing would be done in a day.  I’ll just continue to hide behind my computer, working, and behind my camera, capturing the parts of my life I never put on display.

Wednesday, July 22, 2015

The Hunt for Little Shoes

This weekend we were getting ready to go out and as I was putting on shoes I noticed that S’s toes were almost to the end of her sandals. And I mean touching the very top inside. And they were hard to buckle.

Apparently the kid’s feet grew overnight and her two month old shoes no longer fit.

Of course I work all week, and Stride Rite is 30 minutes away which puts us straight into bedtime assuming I feed them dinner. That’s a recipe for two kids walking around Stride Rite screaming while trying to crawl under fixtures or just making circles while crying.

Yes, they do strange things when they’re tired.

Of course I need the shoes by Saturday because we have something to do, and I won’t have time in the morning with breakfast and naps and what not, mostly because I want to avoid being that person with two screaming children in a store. Of course there’s the internet, but free shipping is 5 days (i.e. after Saturday) and for some reason I feel like I need to see the shoes if I’m buying them without sizing the girls.

Lucky for me (or not) I work downtown, and while I am no longer on the shopping extravaganza that is the Magnificent Mile, I am walking distance from State Street, which has pretty much all the same affordable things and none of the stuff I can only dream of (Ferragamo, I’m talking about you).

So lunchtime at lunchtime I bolted over to State Street to hit up Nordstrom Rack, hoping for a great deal on something fabulous, which wasn’t going to happen because they don’t carry kids stuff. I had to break myself from the magnetic pull of their massive shoe selection and stay focused. What’s next?

Gap. They have kids shoes, right? Sure, if you want your kid to wear one of two shoe styles that don’t bend and may or may not be made of wood. Next.

TJ Maxx; good plan. I got a compliment on my haircut riding up the escalator. This is a good sign. Big kids section, also a good sign. No kids shoes. WTF? Why does Chicago feel kids don't need shoes? 

I am now running perilously low on time and am answering emails while walking through crowded stores, attempting to not run into slow moving shoppers who are obviously not on a lunch hour.

Down the escalator and into Burlington.  This place is some kind of insane basement warehouse and there are directional signs everywhere. I find the one that says Baby Depot and somehow end up in men’s suits. Back down a small staircase and around a corner I found it, and there they were. Racks and racks of shoes for children.

Of course the sizes I needed was one of the smallest sections, and once you took out white patent leather and anything with a wedge heel (because toddlers don't have enough issues with balance) there were only a few options left. Luckily they were cute and I managed to land a pair of OshKosh glitter shoes and leopard print Keds in the appropriate sizes so each kid now has one size larger shoe. That way when D’s shoes suddenly don’t fit next week she’ll have a pair waiting for her.

Of course when I got home we had dinner, a bath, read a couple books and went to bed, and it wasn’t until later that I realized that all my running around and I didn’t even try the new shoes on the girls. I guess that means we’re waiting until tonight to play dress up.

I also need to find time to go back to Nordstrom Rack and play shoe dress up during lunch and find some new shoes for myself. Mom deserves new shoes too, and there was a pair of gold Jimmy Choo heels that were calling my name.


Tuesday, July 14, 2015

Answering the Endless Questions

I wish had the time to do funny and clever mom things, or the creativity to think of things like arts and crafts. Instead I just write this blog, which I can knock out on my phone while riding home on the train or on my lunch break, and half the time it’s not even about being a mom because I figure that’s going to bore all the people who came to read about whatever else I happen to be discussing.

One Australian woman with twins has become my hero though after a bazillion friends sent me links
This is funny. People need to relax. 
to the article and posted it to my wall. Seriously, if she was in the States we’d be having a glass of wine together right now and telling our kids to stop doing whatever it is they’re currently doing that they shouldn’t be.

As a joke, this hero mom attached some FAQs to her kids in the stroller, presumably so people won’t ask her dumb questions while she’s out. While she never actually took the kids out with the signs, the internet predictably lost their shit because people don't have a sense of humor. Personally, I find everything not only funny but also true, and I would like to copy both signs right now and tape them to my own twins, who would probably immediately start chewing on and/or tearing up said signs.

Some people don’t mind talking about their twins and their conception, and trying to explain high school biology to people regarding that whole fraternal identical thing and the basics of ovulation.

I am not one of those people. I’m busy, frazzled, and when I’m out with my kids I’m trying to enjoy my time with them while keeping in mind that we only have one snack with us and I am basically pushing around two time bombs. Of course if either one begins to cry or fuss while we’re standing in line at Target answering the same set of questions for the 208th time that trip, said stranger asking a billion questions immediately brands her as the “bad twin.” She’s not bad, she's just tired of your bullshit.

There’s a follow up to the signs that should also be published, and that should be the list of stupid  comments people make that elicit eye rolls at best and nasty comments back from me at worst.
They're fighting for control of the elephant.
Of course I take a picture instead of help. 
  • There’s two of them (no shit)
  • Double trouble (I seriously hear this every four feet when we're out)
  • They can’t be twins because they don’t look alike (I have heard this more than once)
  • They can’t be twins because they’re both girls and don’t look alike (The education system has failed us all)
  • Wait here; I’m going to get my daughter so she can see them. (Apparently we’re a sideshow)
  • Better you than me (So many things to say, none of them nice)
  • Oh my god, I’d kill myself (This actually left me dumbfounded and I just walked away)
  • Two babies  - Ugh, I'd end up shaking one of them (What in the ever-loving fuck is wrong with you?)
Yes, all of these things have happened, and while the first few times are fine, time number 6,000 on any of those comments or questions just start to piss you off. So I support the Australian twin mom and her signs answering all the dumb questions. Maybe now people will back off and she can finish her grocery shopping or get ice cream with her kids without people butting in.

Too bad she didn’t take into account people don’t read.

Wednesday, June 24, 2015

Leopard After 30

There’s been a list going around for the last six or so months that recently popped back up in my Facebook feed. It’s 24 Things Women Should Stop Wearing After Age 30. When it first showed up I ignored it, then it popped up again. Maybe it’s my impending birthday (where I will be continuing to push into the tick of my 30s) but today I saw it and it really pissed me off.

Let’s examine some of the things that apparently expire one magic day when we pass a line on the calendar.

Graphic tees – Seriously? Cause on the weekend that’s pretty much all I wear. My love of Guns ‘n’
Leopard through the ages
Roses or my new Vampira t-shirt blazon their logos across my chest for all to see. Paired with a pair of Converse (old sneakers are also on the list) and some comfy jeans and I’m ready for a day at the park chasing screeching toddlers who are somehow covered in dirt before they even get out of their stroller.

Leopard print – Screw you stupid writer (I refuse to name her and give her additional publicity). Just because you put it on the list I am going to cover my 30-something mom ass in head to toe leopard. In fact I just ordered a leopard print cardigan today AND I plan to wear it to the office, so suck it.

Furry anything (this was preceded by furry boots which I’m pretty sure aren’t a thing anymore) – I am a huge fan a faux fur and believe that strategically placed fur collars or detailing can really make an outfit. Then there’s faux fur coats and wraps that just reek of old Hollywood glamour if you do it right. Maybe that’s the writer’s problem, she has no sense of style.

Hoop earrings – Apparently they’re just for high school kids. I’ll be sure to tell my mother that. Oh, and my mother in law. She'll give you an ear full about your opinion on her hoop earrings. And all the stores ever. In fact, I just got a great pair of colored lucite hoops from Banana Republic. Apparently they were there for the teenagers since that’s such a hip store for the under 20s crowd.

Oversize sunglasses – Is there really another kind? My sunglasses are all reminiscent of Jackie O.
My over 30 feet are the ones in leopard
and are about the size of my face. So are everyone else’s sunglasses. Even eyeglasses are getting this big. Do they even sell a smaller size?

Short dresses, miniskirts and crop tops – You won’t see me in any of these things, but I have seen quite a few 30-somethings rock the hell out of a miniskirt or crop top. Sure, it’s usually the ones who spend a few hours a week at the gym, but if you do that and have rock hard abs at 32, show them off in that crop top.

There’s a myriad of other things on the list, some of which is a fashion crime for any age (platform flip flops, scrunchies and shorts that aren’t longer than your vagina) and other than that the list is just a scared 20 something with approximately zero concept of fashion and personal style (blue eye shadow can totally be a thing). She’s also obviously not yet 30 and is assuming that the second we pass out of our 20s our once nubile bodies pop out a couple kids and start to sag. We lose all concept of fashion sense and need to turn in our mini dresses and anything with sparkles and fur for mom jeans and plain tees.

Shit, if I took all the sparkles, fur, graphics and leopard out of my closet I’d have almost nothing left to wear.

At the end of the day does it really matter though? Being 30 shouldn't be about what you can't wear, but instead everything you can. By 30 you're an adult and over the mean girl bullshit and approval seeking. So wear what makes you happy, except maybe platform flip flops. Those things really are inexcusable. 

Monday, June 22, 2015

Shoefully Ignorant

I love shoes. It turns out buying them for my girls is as fun as when I buy them for myself. I am also already dreading the day when they get an opinion and stop letting me pick out the ones I like best.

My girls only had gym shoes, which worked great this spring, but I needed to get them ready for summer, so a few weeks ago we piled into the car, drove to the mall, piled out (seriously do you have any idea what goes into taking twins to a mall?) and wandered into the nearest mall.

The new shoes getting ready to jump into action at the park.
Of course the store I wanted to go to was on the opposite side of where I came in, so we schlepped across the mall with all the people stopping to point, yelling out things like “Are they twins?” and “Oh my god, how do you do it?” (double stroller people) and went to Stride Rite.

Lucky me they were having a sale on sandals, but of course only a limited selection. We picked out one style for both girls, and then literally as I am being rung up I chickened out and asked for a different pair of shoes for one of the girls.

“Do you have these in either of their sizes?” I asked holding up a silver sandal (of course their feet are different sizes). Somehow I just knew that if I got the girls the same shoes I’d end up screwing up the sizes. One would end up wearing two left shoes, or each would have one 4.5 and one 4. It would be a disaster. I’d be forever trying to check sizes while wrestling shoes onto baby feet.

Of course I explain all this to the sales associate in a suddenly panicky new mom voice as she very courteously switches out the shoes and rings up the new pair. She laughs and tells me about tricks she’s heard other parents do so that doesn’t happen. They put stickers in the shoes and the kids can match them up, the keep them in the box, teach the kids to read the numbers on the inside… a whole host of things that I hadn’t thought of. (That sticker thing is really clever).

How am I suddenly a shoe novice when it comes to kids? With adult shoes I know everything. I can answer any question. I can tell you how well pitched a shoe is by looking at it, accurately estimate comfort on a variety of styles for men and women, and solve most issues, but when it comes to kids shoes I obviously have no clue what in the living hell I am talking about.

After a short lunch where I was stared at, pointed at and heard people whisper things under their breath, the girls and I packed up again (I’m like a mule at this point) and went out to the parking lot, where we got stopped again by no fewer than four more people, most of whom asked if they were twins. We loaded up into the car and started driving home.

This little piggy escaped. 
Halfway through an otherwise quiet ride home D started to fuss. Then it got louder. Then I realized it didn’t sound quite right. Of course I’m on the expressway driving 60 mph in weekend traffic with a bazillion cars around, my girls are rear facing, D is directly behind me and I can’t see what’s making her whine and scream in a way that doesn’t sound dire, but it’s obvious she’s not happy.

As soon as I pull off the expressway (it’s a short drive) I pull into a parking lot, unbuckle and flip around to find that she has pulled her new sandals halfway off and her big toe is sticking out. By the point she has stopped fussing and is just looking at me, vaguely pissed that her shiny new shoes are not doing whatever it was she was trying to do with them (probably take them off).

If I was a seasoned mom I probably would have seen this coming. I would have known that no center strap allows them to pop their toes out, but instead I am first time mom on all things, including shoes. Change the age of the wearer and I’m totally lost. I know nothing about children’s shoes, and I have two little ones to buy for. That’s lots and lots of shoes, so I guess I’ll be an expert soon enough. The I did what every great mom does when their child is whining in discomfort over having an escaped toe.

I took a picture.

Full disclosure: I am in no way affiliated with Stride Rite and bought their shoes all by myself. 



Wednesday, June 3, 2015

Tales from the Bath

After working 40+ hours a week, commuting, being a mom, a wife, doing some kind of sad excuse for housework (does folding laundry that’s been sitting in the dryer for 2 days count?) and various other crap that makes me who I am, I stare at my closet full of clothes (many of which are too big or too small) and my new collection of shoes, some of which were bought with the intention of running after toddlers, and I think “Who the fuck am I?”.

Last night I was giving the girls a bath and we made shampoo mohawks, played with rubber ducks and splashed until they managed to start splashing water outside the tub and were turning into squawking baby prunes. S finally demanded “Up” which is universal for any position other than the one she’s currently in (down, off, out, and sometimes actually up) and we started drying off.

With two babies you can imagine that there’s some kind of madness that goes along with getting them bathed, dried off and diapered.
“Don’t stand in the tub.”
“Don’t run around naked”
“Stop touching the toilet.”
“Please don’t pee.”
“Please get back in the bathroom and don’t pee on the hardwood.”
“Quit playing in the trashcan.”
“Get that out of your mouth.”
“Christ, what is that in your mouth?”

Once everyone is successfully diapered we move along to lotion. Apparently babies can dry out easily, and no one wants a dry baby, so there are scads of baby lotions out there, some of which are better than others. My girls personally prefer ones in bottles that they can hold and preferably put in their mouth, while I prefer ones that are heavy and have a pump because they don’t put it in their mouth and can’t yet work it.

Baby bath essentials. Oh, and rubber ducks.
So many freaking ducks. 
Yesterday as I was dutifully lotioning the babies after diapers and before pajamas S was insistent on holding the whole bottle of lotion. Insistent to the point where she does that toddler scream if you try to take it away from her, and since we already had a meltdown when I told her to stop drinking bath water, I wasn't ready for another. So I let her hold it, but to keep her from yelling every time I got some from the bottle, I had to talk. So I say what every normal parent says in that situation.
“It puts the lotion on its skin…”

My kids are going to be so fucked up. Yes, we’re quoting Silence of the Lambs as part of our post-bathtime rituals. Whatever. It’s better than letting her play in the toilet or drink bath water, and she hasn't seen the movie so she has no idea what I'm referencing.

And by the way, I want to slap the person who says that baths calm babies and should be part of a nightly soothing routine. Obviously that person didn't have twins. Or toddlers. Hell, that person may have not even had kids. It was probably a marketing exec at Johnson & Johnson pitching some bullshit about lavender bath soap. But that’s fine because my twins and I have bath time down to something fun. Or at least fun for them. I just get to quote creepy movies and hope they don't repeat it when they start preschool.


Friday, May 29, 2015

Silver Nerve Damage

DSW is seriously the best. I've said it before, and I stand by it. They have a customer for life here. Plus I have all those rewards, so there’s that.

They looked great, but hurt like hell. 
Let week my procrastinating self decided that silver shoes were needed to complete my outfit for a wedding I was attending. After scouring the internet, I found a great pair of Betsey Johnson silver heels with a rhinestone embellishment. Seriously amazing looking shoes (named Gia if you're looking for it). Despite the cost of said shoe, I didn't qualify for free shipping because I’m not a platinum member (on account of being all pregnant for like a year), so I had to pay upgraded shipping so the shoes showed up in time (hopefully), and then of course I bitched about it because it turned my $80 shoes into $100 shoes.

I should have really just worn what I have, but whatever.

DSW jumped on Titter, responded to my bitching, and upgraded my shipping for free. Yep. Awesome. So much awesome.

Friday night the shoes were waiting for me when I got home so I was able to give them a test run around the kitchen prior to the rehearsal (husband was standing up). The looked amazing. The (almost) perfect shoe.

The night of the wedding, I got dressed, freshened up my makeup in like 8 seconds because I was going to miss the last shuttle from the hotel to the reception, and walked like Peg Bundy in my Pinup Girl Couture Erin wiggle dress and 4 1/2 inch silver heels.
Totally happened.
I took them off. 

I’m pretty sure the only way I could have possibly walked slower that night would be if I just sat down and stopped moving entirely. But it looked good, and there’s a price we all pay for fashion. right?

Pretty sure my price that evening was nerve damage. I love you Betsey, but please, for the love of god put some kind of platform in shoes with heels over 4 inches. Aside from the fact that it will help with speed (which wouldn't have mattered anyway because of the dress), when you spend hours on your feet dancing, talking and dancing with a pitch that high it takes a toll.

Of course once we got the to after party (yep, there was a wedding after party) someone immediately broke a glass, making it impossible to even slide my shoes off under the table for fear of cutting open my foot and causing actual nerve damage (as opposed to the theoretical damage I was convinced I had).

The next morning my feet were still sore and they were so swollen from their evening of abuse that I could only fit them in loafers. The silver heels went home, safely tucked away in their box where they will stay for a while. Mostly because there aren't too many occasions to wear 4 1/2 inch silver heels with rhinestone baubled toes, but also because of the pain they caused me. Who knows, maybe in 17 years they’ll be considered retro and one of my girls can wear them to prom. I bet they’ll hurt less on younger feet.



Thursday, May 21, 2015

Tiny shoes, big cost

I’m not sure exactly what happened recently, but I’m pretty sure my life has been sucked into a black hole. The girls started walking, I got a new job, started the new job, bought the girls shoes, went to work, came home, did some stuff, tried to be a good wife and mom, worked some more.

That doesn't leave much time for anything else, but I renew my promise (again) to try and be better about writing and posting. For real.

I’ll write on my phone while chasing the girls in two different directions. One wants to play with the dog toy (which really pisses him off) and the other wants to play on the stairs. Always the stairs. What the hell kids?

It was like watching a dog with boots on.
She was pissed.
I’m going to start putting their shoes on them inside because the shoes actually slow them down. Neither one really knows what to do right away, so they just stand there like tiny little statues. Eventually they figure out how to walk again and we’re off to the same old mischief, but those couple minutes of rest were nice.

I think there should also be something made so I can tether them together. They make little leashes for kids, why not something so they can’t separate. When there’s only one of me and two of them, they seem insistent on going in different directions. Stairs and the dog dish, coffee table, stairs and trying to play with the dog.

Seriously, the dog is not a huge fan. He’s good to them, but is easily annoyed and they love him so much it brings to mind Elmira from Looney Tunes.

So cute. Too bad they only fit for a minute.  
The funny thing about them walking now though is how little they wear those new shoes we spent an obscene amount of money on. I mean, you have to get the good shoes to help with their little developing feet. And there’s two of them, so I get to buy two nice pairs of shoes. And as I’m checking out the sales lady looks at me and says, “These should fit for about three months, so be sure to come back a little before that.”

Three months? FML. So far we’re almost a month into ownership and they've worn them twice because they go everywhere in a stroller since they still suck at walking and have zero concept of self-preservation. Luckily, I get a 10% twin discount, which I guess is something, even if it is only a few dollars every three months.

Still people keep asking how it is that my girls only have one pair of shoes each when I have so many pairs of shoes. It’s because my shoes will fit for longer than three months and I actually walk in mine. I promise when they start walking for real they can have more than one pair of shoes.

I guess we better start taking more trips to the park, get some use out of those little shoes.



Wednesday, April 8, 2015

The Answer is in the Heel

Most women have a stash of shoes in various places. Drawers at the office, the trunk or backseat of the car, or all of the above. We have this because our needs are constantly changing. I walk almost a mile from the train to the office. I can’t do that in the heels I’ll wear all day. Plus all that walking can’t be good for the heels (or my feet in the heels).  Then there’s the after dinner drinks, lunch that you’re walking to but is still professional so you want heels, weekends and time chasing kids, or going out on the town.

Never mind that we need shoes in different colors or styles, the main reason we hoard shoes in a million places is because one height doesn’t work for everything. You can’t walk a mile in stilettos twice a day for years, just like you can’t wear a low heeled oxford with a dress on a date night. This constant changing is how we end up with drawers full of shoes scattered throughout the various
Heels with flames. Love this.
places we live our lives like some kind of adult Hansel & Gretel.

Once woman has created a shoe that solves all of these issues. You can wear the same shoe out chasing the kids around as you did to the office this week with that smart skirt suit with just one small adjustment. The heel.

Tanya Heath has created a shoe that can fit into many facets of our life with her multi-height shoe. Switch out the heels from low to chunky to high and slim. There are even options with spikes. The collection of actual heels is as expansive as the different styles and colors of shoes.

I have not yet tried them, and at 350€ per pair (heels not included) they’re a little out of my current price range. Individual sets of heels are 50€ each, so the whole shoe is a bit of an investment, but still more affordable than many other designer shoes (which only have one heel). As soon as I get that executive office I’m good for a pair. Something this logical is perfect for busy women, and the ultimate business trip shoe. Pack one pair of shoes and multiple heels. Just hope TSA leaves your bags alone because I imagine explaining why you have multiple heels with no shoes would be a little
bizarre.

The only thing I don’t understand about the shoes is how they are pitched so that one pair of shoes is able to accommodate multiple heel heights.  I guess these are the great questions of the world. That and where does one store all those loose heels?

Here's an interview with the designer, Tanya Heath, discussing her creation.

Friday, April 3, 2015

What Have I Become?

There’s life changers that are really obvious and turn your entire life on its ear (like the day I came home with twins), and then there are the subtle changes that you don’t really notice until you have some reason to look back. At that point it sometimes makes you wonder “Who am I?”

The other day I was texting with a friend and we were discussing work, jobs, next steps and the path that got us there. We've been friends since we were about 15, moved to the city around the same time, spent our 20s putting in 50+ hours a week at the office, trying to establish ourselves in careers, and spent weekends bar hopping, drinking too much and making some questionable decisions. Eventually we started spending weekends in, got married (me, not him), moved, got new jobs, kept working a million hours a week (does that stop?), had twins (me again) and once in a while we manage to not have meetings on the same day and we meet for lunch.

Closet vomit. I seriously need to get this under control.
So as we were discussing careers and the general trajectory of said careers I was whining about not being able to find a new suit, which can be shocking because I work near Michigan Ave. in Chicago, and I texted, “Between meetings, yoga and work I haven’t had time to shop so I impulse bought a Cynthia Rowley jacket this weekend and still need a fucking suit.”

This stopped me dead in my tracks.

Not because it sounds totally spoiled and crazy (because I’m aware it does), but because I realized I am becoming that woman. I am the woman who has a closet full of blazers that pair with statement necklaces. I get my nails done on lunch hours, do yoga, eat organic and consider a smoothie a full meal. I wear giant black sunglasses, carry a bag that could fit a small human or a mid-size dog and check my work email at all hours of the night and on weekends.  Now with two little kids I feel like I have become some kind of suburban cliché, but from a Tim Burton film.

You can’t truly be a cliché if you’re in on the joke, right?  

Just as I’m staggering at this vision of myself and start to get the sweats thinking I've sold out and become some kind of faceless Corporate Barbie, I realize that I forgot to put the laundry in the dryer and I trip over the pile of shoes and boxes spilling out of my closet like some kind of spiky, leather and colored vomit.

Dress me up in suits and give me all the kale smoothies you can handle, you don’t have to go too far to find that driven girl who works hard and plays hard and spends all her money on shoes. I’m still kind of a disaster, but now I get to break more expensive things.

Friday, March 27, 2015

Sweatpants, Jeans, Divorce and Humor

These are not pretty or flattering.
I've decided this week it’s a good thing I’m not a celebrity.

I mean it’s unfortunate because if I was I’d have a lot more money and would be able to do things like see my kids for more than an hour a day and go to the gym, but it’s good because the world would think I am a complete an utter bitch (which I can be, but part of that is also an Olympic case of bitchy resting face). But I already have enough problems saying what I think and having an overly dry sense of humor, and in today's humorless society, that would not go over well. That means I get to leave the funny comments to real celebs, who will then be jumped all over by a humorless Internet full of people grasping their Starbucks cups and pretending they're going to yoga right after this last Facebook post.

Case in point, Eva Mendes who said sweatpants cause divorce.

Good for her. They’re horrid things that don’t look good on anyone and aside from being comfy, have no redeeming value. For me they aren't even comfy because my ultra sensitive skin is allergic to the fuzzy inside of sweat-anything and I get a rash. Seriously. Sweatpants literally give me a rash. And apparently are a cause for divorce. We should burn them all.

Giant P.S. to the entire world; Eva was freaking kidding. It was a joke.  And, in my opinion, a funny one. Everyone who isn’t a total asshole knows that sweatpants don’t cause divorce (I’m not naming names, but you can do a search and find the assholes). Being a total asshole can be a cause of divorce, growing apart, an affair with the pool boy, the nanny, the neighbor, stress, money…all these things have been cited as reasons for divorce, but sweatpants, never.

She just rolled out of bed.
On the other hand, if you’re lazy and never leave the house and wear sweatpants all the time, maybe there is a deeper psychological issue playing out here. And ladies, I’m not just talking to you. This whole sweatpants thing goes for guys too. Christ people, you’re grownups. Put on some real pants to leave the house and leave the athletic gear to the gym and varying sports (and yes, this includes yoga pants).

A couple days later, Mendes was criticized again for saying that she dislikes jeans and finds them uncomfortable. The internet was on fire with chatter about another thing she hates that’s a staple of Americana. And again, I wonder why anyone gives a shit.

First, the woman can wear a paper bag and look better than most of us on our best days. Second, who gives a shit if she likes skirts more than jeans? Sometimes skirts are more comfortable than jeans, and when you have an ass it’s hard to find jeans that fit properly.

So internet, take a chill pill and stop getting your panties in a bunch over the fact that Eva Mendes doesn’t like your sweatpants or jeans. Instead why not march into your closet and putting on a pair of big boy or girl pants (or a skirt) and dress like an adult for once. And if your closet is void of anything other than sweatpants and jeans, it’s time to go shopping and buy some adult clothes. 

Monday, March 23, 2015

Spring Fail

I think in past years I have blogged about how I epically fail at spring fashion.  Something about the bright colors, airy fabric and colors (yes, it’s worth mentioning twice) that are really a problem. By the time summer rolls around I spend my days in variations of black skirts, dresses and cigarette pants with sunglasses firmly planted on my face until it cools down to fall.

This year I have my girls and their bright, pastel infused, happy looking baby wardrobe to highlight
So happy and pink.
my epic fails at spring. They have a dress covered in a pink tailed mermaid paired with hot pink leggings. I am in black leggings and a short sleeved burgundy sweater and ankle boots. Denim dress with floral leggings for them, black pants with a black top and a leopard infinity scarf for me.  I even went out and bought a pair of leopard loafers for the spring and summer that can be easily slipped on and worn to chase children all over the place, but they’re pony hair (which is probably why they were on sale) and that’s really not very spring or summer.

I have another pair of loafers but they’re velvet.  My one pair of sandals is a three inch platform wedge and not really conducive to running errands while carting babies during the summer months.  Apparently it’s not just my clothes that need spring and summer help, but my shoes too.  If the girls wore shoes I’m sure they would be seasonally appropriate and cute.

Am I suddenly a fashion failure because of my kids, or are their bright colors and flamingo covered jumpers just highlighting the total and utter lack of color in my wardrobe?  Have I really spent all previous summers on this plant covered in black, traipsing around in sky-high wedges, sunglasses as big as my face and a smear of red lipstick that threatened to melt off my face in the searing Chicago summer heat?

Yes. That’s exactly what happened. And after taking a look at my closet full of black sun dresses, tank tops, cotton skirts and cigarette pants, I’ve decided that’s not going to change anytime soon. In fact, I just ordered new black cat-eye sunglasses from Betsey Johnson and had my manicure done in medium gray.  So come on over spring and summer. I look forward to spending another sweaty, sun drenched season avoiding color and acting like a vampire while enjoying your beaches under a canopy in SPF 50 (and a black swim suit) while my girls discover their love of sand, sun and all warm weather things in covered in hot pink mermaids and pastel polka dots.

Writers note: It just snowed in Chicago. Pretty sure I can keep wearing all black for a few more weeks. Apparently spring isn't coming to Chicago this year. 

Saturday, March 7, 2015

Learning to Share

Having twins means they fight over a lot of things. They haven't really gotten to the sharing part, but they do steal from each other, make the other one cry, and then fight about it (even if there's two of the same toy).  This week they decided to start sharing when they shared the stomach flu.

Wednesday I got up, nursed them and then started to put them back in their cribs when D made a noise and I heard a splash like she spit up. I turned her around and after a couple "urp" noises she vomited all over me. It was them that I saw the dark shadow of vomit that was all over her crib. And then she puked on me again. 

I woke up hubby, who wasn't really happy to see me holding a baby and covered in vomit at 5:30 in the morning. The urping started again and I ran into the bathroom with D and stood her in front of the toilet. It was when she started playing with the seat that I realized babies don't understand the toilet, let alone throwing up into it. Instead she was deposited into an empty bathtub to be hosed off and cleaned by dad while I stripped and remade the crib. Once back in the the crib she went right back to sleep. 

My laundry room is not this clean. 
I, on the other hand, had to shower baby vomit off me and get into a suit to go downtown for a can't miss work event. Husband stays home with them every day anyway, so he takes pukey and her sister and keeps me updated on things like vomit, diaper output and how many outfits they went through via text. 

When I got home all was well, there was no more puke, everyone was happy, got a bath, and I did a giant load of laundry. 

Thursday morning everyone is vomit free at the 5:30 feeding, and despite running late I feel like I'm winning when I get in the shower and don't have to wash baby vom off myself. I rush around like an asshole, realize the shoes I want are in a drawer at the office (I think), pick other shoes because I'm not going to the office and get out the door only a little late. 

First text of the morning informs me that S woke up in a crib full of vomit. Awesome. 

Thursday was four or five more outfits, more crib bedding, and when I came home the house smelled like baby poop because they have been going through diapers like shitting is an Olympic sport. I took off my suit before touching anyone, and relived a somewhat bedraggled looking husband. Changed some more diapers, did more laundry, fed babies, took out all the garbage in the house and sprayed eveything with Lysol.  And I'm still convinced I got the easy part of dealing with this flu.

Hubby should get a medal for what he deemed a 48 hour flu. Instead he got the flu. Then I got the flu. In fact, this post was delayed more than a day because I was busy emptying the contents of my stomach and generally feeling like death warmed over.

This is their first time sharing, and they did it with everyone in the house.  Now if you'll excuse me, I have more laundry to do. 

Friday, February 27, 2015

Shades of Gray

This is not about that shittily written book or the movie, which I will probably hate-watch when it comes to Netflix. Instead it’s about counting, assholes and how I can’t keep my footwear straight despite the fact that I only have like 6 pairs of shoes that fit.

Last weekend I packed up the girls, tossed them and their crap in the car and headed out for errands. I had to return a pair of oxblood boots to DSW because the heel cap on one shoe disintegrated after 2 wears in my office. Of course they didn’t have any more in my size in the whole wide damn world, and so I had to return them (and of course get something else).

The girls and I pursued the clearance racks because, well, sales, and I eventually picked out a pair of Adrienne Vittadini leopard flats that look like something logical I should own so I can chase babies, and a pair of gray d’orsay Vincent Camuto pumps. Admittedly the latter were somewhat rushed.

These two are nothing alike. They can both stay.
D was holding the flats, happily playing and S was starting to squawk at everything to passed in an effort to voice her displeasure at being in her seat.  Of course I also decided to wear Dr. Martens to DSW because I apparently subconsciously didn’t plan on trying anything on.

“You babies wait here while Mommy wrestles this boot off so I can see if these flats I’m not even sure I like fit. Now wait while I take 10 minutes to lace this shit back up.”

Bad plan.

So I ran out of there with two pairs of shoes, not really satisfied with my purchase and went to Target. By now both girls are freaking out and are pissed to still be strapped in, so I put one in a cart, strap one on in an Ergo, and go into Target.

Now Ergo baby wants out.

I smoosh them both in the seat of a cart meant to apparently hold one very wide child and we’re off.

The next 30 minutes we zipped around Target picking up odds and ends while the girls marveled at life from the seat of a shopping cart (did I mention this was their first cart ride). They looked at everything, tried to touch everything, and every time we passed a person D laughed at them. Loud. In this weird inward breathing baby laugh we refer to as “inward chicken singing.”  This of course makes people notice her and then they stop and talk to me.

The one in zebra (D) is mocking you.
“Oh look, there’s two of them.”  Seriously, I heard that like 15 times. As if I don’t know how many babies I have. I grew them, I was the one who was the size of a house, couldn’t breathe, and had two babies torn from my body two minutes apart. I am also the same person who has been caring for them the last 11 months, including every night when they wake up, usually twice. I am really, really aware there’s two of them.

All comments about how many children I have sitting in the cart were then immediately followed by, “Oh, a boy and a girl?”

What? Sure. The boy is the one in pink. Or is he the one in zebra with hearts on the pants? They’re both wearing Cabbage Patch Kid hats with pigtails? Obviously the redhead. With the pigtails.

Assholes. I am no longer embarrassed that my baby is inexplicably laughing at you. It is obvious it’s because she realizes how dumb you are before you open your mouth.

Finally we packed up and went home for a vaguely overdue lunch. I unpacked all my stuff, looked at the shoes, placed them in the closet, and realized that the Vince Camuto heels are the exact same style and color as another pair of gray heels I just bought. But they’re different shades. Maybe I should just keep them both. Going out again to return them is entirely too much effort.