there were never such devoted sisters.

My girls have been fighting a lot lately. Like, A LOT. I guess I kind of get it...for three and a half years they have done everything together. It all started when they were conceived at the same time. Kind of crazy if you let yourself think about it. Two eggs? Both fertilized? Are you kidding me?

Then when they came out, they had to share us and the attention. No sooner would I be gazing into one pair of dark eyes than the other one would need something.
They still take baths together. Here's a shot from before they could even sit up on their own. Glad those days are over.
They shared a crib when they first came home from the hospital...until they started rolling over. It didn't matter how far apart we placed them, they always seemed to find each other by the morning.They still have never spent one night apart. And they are getting on each others nerves. And that gets on my nerves.

It also makes me think of my own sister. She is almost four years older than I am. Funny how back then, those almost-four-years meant I thought braces were cool and I was a tag-a-long and she got to do everything and she basically hung the moon.

Yeah. She's the one with the cool braces. I'm the...other one.

I just saw her last weekend. Seeing her reminded me to remember to miss her. And missing her I am. I don't like my town as much without her in it. And it makes me think about my girls and how they are together almost too much...but how when they grow up, they won't be.

Our almost-four-year age difference is pretty insignificant now. I know better than to think braces are cool and we do things together now rather than me tagging along. One thing hasn't changed, though...I pretty much still think she hung the moon.
You didn't seriously think I could end with that last picture, did you?

plotlines in my life

Tonight our oldest twin tearfully refused a bath for fear that her "fingernails might come off". They were freshly painted yesterday by her Nanny...I knew what she meant. You have to pick your battles. These days, it seems I'm losing the ones I pick but whatever. She's asleep now...dirty hair; fingernails intact.

Now that they are all sleeping (husband included), I thought I'd take a moment and offer a few updates.

I talked with the bride. Turns out she's a really gracious and forgiving person. Good thing. I guess I already knew that, but it's still a relief to have talked with her and offer my appropriate apologies for my lack of...well, just for my lack. I'd post a photo from her wedding here, but I wasn't there. So this is me. Moving on. Starting now.

The movie we were waiting for? Well, it came. They were scared of the Beast, but held out hope until he turned nice. And we had a real movie night (or day, really). It is so refreshing to watch something other than Dora. I was pleased to discover I remembered so many of the songs after 15 years or so. Two girls weren't so pleased. I think "Shhhh, Mommy. We can't hear" was the exact phrase. At least it's in English.

And then there is my daily struggle with Good Mom. If only she would disappear into the archives like that blog post did. But she doesn't. Instead she hovers, lingering in my days the same way the smell of a dirty diaper lingers in the room after it has been taken to the trashcan outside. She weaves her way into my thoughts and leaves me feeling helpless to ever becoming more like her. Turns out Good Mom may be a good mom, but she isn't a very good friend.

I remember the words the Lord speaks to me, gentle and true. He brings life and hope and clarity.

And He doesn't hover. I like that.

returning to thursday nights

Coming home from school was always a part of the day I looked forward to when I was a kid. I remember sitting in my first grade classroom at the end of the day and hearing the big orange-yellow buses pull up in front of the school...lining up in predictable order to take us home. There seemed to be at least a small bit of excitement about going home every afternoon. There was sure to be Mom who would always have some type of snack for us. There was also another aspect to the after school routine at our house...TBS.

Every afternoon at 4:05, reruns of The Brady Bunch aired on TBS. (Remember when TBS did everything on the five?) Except I'm not sure if I knew at the time that they were reruns. Thus began my association of comfort and safety with a TV show. Shameful, I know.

It wasn't until years later that I became so hooked on another show. Not that I didn't watch TV during all those years...but I don't remember another show I really attached memories to like I did The Brady Bunch. Until the spring of 2002 when The Man and I began to watch the end of season 4 of Survivor with my sister and brother-in-law. It wasn't so much the show itself at that time. It was the fact that my sister and I now lived in the same town (which hadn't been true since I was in high school). And now we had a night, Thursday nights. That was our night...to hang out, eat dinner together, play with our nephews, and after they were tucked in, to turn on CBS and watch random people outwit, outplay, outlast.

We watched several seasons on Thursday nights together, until one particular Thursday afternoon I took a pregnancy test that turned out to be positive and 9 months (or so) later, we had twins. Evening outings became a thing of the past and our Thursday nights with my sister became Thursday nights at home. Watching Survivor, just the 2 of us...well, it wasn't the same. And so we stopped.

Thanks be to a certain female contestant on Survivor China premiering tonight for resurrecting our desire to watch. She happens to be a co-worker and friend of my parents. So I'm making a chocolate chip pie and inviting friends over to watch not-so-random people outwit, outplay, outlast.

It won't be the same as it once was...the glory days of the early seasons with my family. But it will be fun to have someone to cheer for.

quotable quotes

I realize that, of all the people in the world (more specifically those who read this blog), I am the one who most enjoys the things my kids say. I try to be sensitive to that, kind of the same way I try to avoid telling my labor and delivery stories in the midst of other moms. What is it with that anyway? All it takes is one pregnant woman in line at a children's consignment sale, and all of a sudden, 3 women are telling their labor stories simultaneously, not responding to one another except as an excuse to launch into their "Well, my water also broke at 3am and then we..." Drives me nuts. True story, by the way.

So, even though I realize I am the one who gets the most kicks over what comes out of the mouths of my babes, I thought the following snapshots into our days were worthy to share with the masses (all 10 of you). The following are things they've said in the past week, with a bonus quote from a fellow mom at the end:

• In the car, on the way to preschool, each twin has a doll. Their conversation, word for word:

AG: My mommy's home but my daddy's not...he died.
S: Oh. Maybe God can bring him back
AG: But you can't see him cuz He's all around.
S: I see Him under my bed.
AG: How 'bout you be God.
S: Ok. Hi. I'm God.
AG: Hey, how 'bout you be Mary.
S: Ok. I'm Mary. (singing) Mary had a little lamb, little lamb...

• Said in a loud whine, "Mommy, I really want to get in my mouth..."

• To my mom in the midst of crying while pointing to the air beside her, "Look! There's other me. See her? She's right there." (should I be worried?)

• Walking past a restaurant, one twin sweetly declares, "I smell a beeaaauutiful hot dog."

• And one more quote, not from my kids, but from a mom at a birthday party last weekend (also my personal favorite):

kid at party: Mommy, can I have another piece of cake?
Mom: No honey, I want you to have something healthy first. Here's a chicken nugget.

hurry up and be patient

When my parents first got their dog, Delly, I thought they had gone mad. My mom doesn't like dogs, at least thats what I thought. But they were living in Austin and we were all on the east coast and they were lonely. So they got a dog. I remember when she was a puppy and they would take her out to do her business, they would say the phrase "Hurry up, delly...hurry up!" real fast and sing-songy...they said it was her trigger to go ahead and pee or...whatever.

Sometimes I hear myself telling my girls to hurry up...but then I can't figure out why. There are those days when we are late to preschool or an appointment and I simply don't have time to wait for them to buckle their own car seat belt. But a lot of the time, we are going to the park or Target or someplace where time isn't a factor. Still, I hear those words come from my mouth...."Come on girls...hurry up. Put your shoes on, hurry up. Let's go to the car. Close the door. Come on! Hurry up!" Why do I do that?

I read something in the booklet that their Sunday school teacher sends home each week, and it said instead of telling your child to hurry up, give yourself a chance to slow down! Let your child set the pace.

Oh. I'd never thought of that. A chance to slow down. Now there's a novel idea.

great expectations

The girls have been with Nanny and Poppy for a few days. They come home today. I have missed them, but it has been a nice break. It has been hard not to overplan my time without them...you know, deciding all these undone projects will get done in the 2 days they are gone. Impossible as I still have one whole child around to take care of, as well as the usual daily life things. Besides, why can't I just "plan" to relax, enjoy, sit and be? Afterall, that is just as important...maybe even more. If I had more "sit and be" time, maybe I wouldn't, oh I don't know, forget to go to weddings and things like that.

there goes the bride

So its been a good weekend. Saturday especially. Time with friends with donuts and coffee. Took kids to the park. Pulled some weeds in the yard. Enjoyed a girls night out. Ate good food. Watched a chick flick. Today was a good day too. Church was good. Kids were happy. Husband was happy. Lunch out. Time at home. Baby napped. Girls played.

I sat down to clip coupons. I was content...proud that this day that has such potential to be hectic was turning out so nicely. Until I lifted up the coupons from my desk. And there, at the bottom of a small pile of papers, was an invitation. To a wedding. Of my friend. For yesterday.

As I held it in my hand, I could feel the blood rush out of my face, that creamy card stock mocking me with its swirly silver writing...silently accusing me with the words Saturday the eighth of September. My first instinct was to think of someone else to blame. Anyone but my own lack of organization for failing to transfer the wedding date from the card to my calendar. Surely they should have called the guests to remind us to come? But it was in vain. All I could think of was that while I was stuffing my stupid face with chicken florentine pizza and crying because Jane let Tom Lefroy go, my friend was living the most important day of her life. And I missed it. Because I forgot.

So here I am. Regretful, yes. Embarrassed, you better believe it. Sad for two reasons: because I know I disappointed her by not being there and also, because I'm disappointed myself. I wanted to be there. To meet her husband. To take photos for fun. To be a good friend.

I feel like a failure, an idiotic airhead. But I can't let myself stay there. I guess there just comes a point when I have to realize that I've made a mistake and, as much as I'd like to, I can't take it back. And so I wait...for my feelings to settle and for the color to return to my face.

And I go out and buy her a card to contain my well wishes and sincere apology, a wedding gift, and a box of chocolates.

still good, even though...

I am not the one to write about loss. I have friends who could write books on the topic. But not me. Still, there has been a loss. And today marks 10 years. So I feel compelled to write. And so I do.

The spring of 1993 was the spring I turned 16, got my braces off, made the varsity cheer leading squad, went to my first prom and had my first legitimate boyfriend. His best friends' name was Chris, and Chris was dating my best friend, Heather. Needless to say, the four of us became pretty close.

Chris was not the kind of guy with whom I would have naturally been friends. He could be kind of a jerk, actually. He was really funny, but often times at other peoples' expense (it was high school, after all). He always said I had a big nose but thought it was ok to say because he had a big nose too. He was talented and popular...captain and keeper on the varsity soccer team, voted most outspoken in the senior superlatives. He liked to party. After a while, we saw a softer side of him. I was there when he was baptized. He was charming and, if you could get past being the brunt of his jokes, he was pretty easy to like. Over that year, he became one of my closest friends at a time in life when friends were everything.

Eventually, we all went off to college and lived separate lives. A year or so after I had last seen him, I was watching the news along with the rest of the world as we learned of the death of princess Diana. A short time later, Mother Teresa died as well. And I watched loss and grief on TV. But I was far removed, disconnected, aware but unaffected.

Little did I know that during that same time, on a small college campus in Tennessee, there was a motorcycle accident. And so while the world was mourning the loss of a princess and a saint, those who knew this funny, witty, talented, sarcastic college guy...well, we were mourning too.

Now its been 10 years. So what's my point? I guess just that he should be here. Somewhere in the world, he should be laughing and loving a wife and having kids and living. And I'm not naive enough to think that he and I would still be in touch because we probably wouldn't. But I should be able to google his name on a curious Saturday afternoon and find a blip of an article from a random newspaper about when his baby daughter was born or his name listed in an online college graduation bulletin or maybe even his stats in a bio about the US Olympic soccer team or his run on Survivor or...something.

I guess that's the nature of death. There is a place in the world where it seems like they are supposed to be but they aren't. I don't even care where that place is. Just somewhere. But then, who am I to say what is supposed to be or not be? And so I sit and remember, reflecting on his life and who he was to me and those who knew him...and I trust that, even though it doesn't make it feel any less of a loss, I trust that the Lord knows. And He sees. And He is still good.