Maureen's Muse

Roses are red, Laken is blue, if she can't sleep with you...

2012-02-14T01:00:00.000-08:00

“Why don’t you move back to yourbed tonight?” I encouraged Laken, who’dreverted to sleeping with Yasmine a few months ago after becoming unexplainablyterrified to sleep alone.

The twins hadn’t actually sharedthe same bed like this since they’d been three months old when we’d determinedthey were too crowded to stay in the same crib. So how they had adequate room together at age ten was a mystery to me.

“This isthe last night,” Laken said, averting her eyes.

I wasdoubtful. I was doubly thwarted as the arrangement wasbeneficial to both parties. Laken wasn’tafraid to go to sleep and Yasmine had a ‘built in servant’ to cater to all herneeds by merely taunting the threat of withholding sleeping quarters.

Each day I’d hear Yasmine’s demandswhich Laken eagerly obeyed to secure her coveted spot. “If you…domy laundry or… get me a snack or… be my servant or… clean the guinea pig cageor…pay me a dollar… then you can sleep with me.”

In essence, my daughter wasprostituting herself for sleeping arrangements.

I didn’t put up much of a fight. I’dbeen waging a losing battle to acquire sleep for about fourteen years now. Our Lhasa Apso, who’d been our ‘first child’had started disrupting my sleep long before the twins arrived and eagerlyjoined the quest to ensure I forgot what a full night’s sleep was. Therefore,my concern was often my own sleep. Ifthey slept---I got to sleep.

Each nightI’d tried a different tactic to try to help Laken overcome her fears, only to bemet by rationale that left me befuddled and without a satisfactory retort.

“The bed isn’t big enough for bothof you.” I pointed at the tangled body parts that provided me a visual of howthey might look conjoined.

“Yes itis. That’s why it’s called a twin bed.” I had no known basis as to how the size ofthe bed had come to be identified, but it did make me feel like royalty as Icrawled into our king bed each night.

“Why don’t you use the trundle?You’d be in the same room.”

“Then Iwouldn’t have anyone to sleep with.”

“You don’tneed to; you’ve slept in your own bed for years.”

“But youand dad sleep together in the same bed.”

“Err...we’vemarried.”

“But why doyou sleep together? Why don’t you sleep in yourown beds then?”

“Becausethat’s what husbands and wives do.”

“Well, welike to sleep together too.”

I retreatedfor another night.

“So when do you think you’ll begoing back to your bed?”

“Never! Welove each other. That’s what people wholove each other do.”

The nextnight when Yasmine made her feeble complaints again about wanting her bed backafter coercing Laken to give her a coveted bracelet charm, I’d decided to startchoosing my battles---and this wasn’t one of them.

“You madeyour bed, you’ll just have to sleep in it.”

Along with her twin, countlessstuffed animals and a mass of blankets.

Swimming with Sharks

2012-02-07T01:00:00.000-08:00

“I can’t wait to go on vacation.” Laken said as we got into the van.

“Me too.” Iheard the click of the twins buckling their seat belts and then pulled out ofthe parking lot.

“I can’twait to walk on the beach again.” Lakensighed dreamily.

“Metoo.”

“I can’twait to look for seashells.” Yasminepiped in.

“Me too.”

“Justthink…this may be the last time we swim in the ocean without having ourperiod.”

“Me---what?!” I clutched the steering wheel.

Too late. Onceagain, I was trapped in the ‘twins van interrogation chamber’. They were confident enough to know I valued ourlives to not to veer off the road and kill us all, thus marking myself morevulnerable to such questioning.

“I’mworried about sharks, though,” Laken continued. “I don’t think I’ll swim in the ocean againafter this year. You know, cause of theblood.”

I glancedinto the rear view mirror. Four eyeballs intently awaited my response. Thevacation conversation had been initiated to weaken my defenses to get to thepertinent topic. Puberty.

“You maynot have started by then.” In fact, Ihoped they didn’t start till at least age twenty-five, okay that may beunrealistic, but age nine was way too early.

“Where doyou get the stuff for it?” Laken leanedforward in her seat as if whispering about some kind of contraband. “You know…periodstuff?”

“At thestore.” I focused on the road. I’d been accosted with the pubertyconversation more times than I could count and I’d went way beyond my moms ‘they told you about that in school, right?’conversation, I still wasn’t relaxed enough to control a moving vehicle and monitormy responses carefully.

I imagined the police officer atthe accident when I was forced to admit the distraction that caused theaccident. “No officer. I wasn’t eating,falling asleep or texing. It was questions about puberty…you know, female stuff.’

Although perhaps this would curtailfurther questing and elicit enough sympathy to let me off easy.

“What if itstarts at school?”

“You’d goto the nurse, she’ll have something.”

“I don’twant to use those!” Yasmine complained. “Can’t I just wear a couple pairs ofunderwear and pants?”

“That won’twork, honey.”

“So what,”Laken blurted. “You just go to heroffice and say ‘hey, it’s my period’and she goes to a big closet filledwith pads and tampons and gets you one from there?”

“Umm,” Ibriefly visualized the ‘feminine product vault’ the girls seemed to beenvisioning. “I don’t think she’d have that many, but she’d probably havesomething.”

“She’d haveto. With all those girls needing themall the time once they start---she’d need a whole lot!”

“What? Youwon’t have it every single day onceyou start.” I shuddered at the thought. “It’s usually once a month.”

“Oh, that’snot so bad, then.” Both girls smiledwith relief. “Then maybe we can stillswim in the ocean…If it’s not ourperiod.”

Five habits of highly successful four year olds

2012-01-31T01:00:00.000-08:00

“I can snap my fingers and you can’t!” Laken taunted.

Yasmine shrugged. “You can snap for me.”

Laken scowled. “But now I can snap, tie my shoes, whistle, ride a bike…” she smiled smugly. “And snort.” Apparently these were the five essential things to master at age four. Her twin sister didn’t share the same pressing need to accomplish these tasks, which frustrated Laken all the more.

“So?” Yasmine retorted. “I’ll wear Velcro tennis shoes.”

Laken looked irritated at her dismissal of conquering the ‘bunny ears’. “You can’t even ride your bike yet!”

This prompted the anger she was seeking from her sister. “I don’t know why daddy took the training wheels off!” Yasmine balled her tiny fists and leaned toward her sister. “Besides, anyone can snort! That’s not hard!”

“Not as good as me.”’ Laken demonstrated a few obnoxious sounds. “Plus I can whistle.” She tooted a few notes vaguely resembling a whistle.

“That’s not a whistle! My whistle is louder than that!” Yasmine stormed off to obtain her plastic whistle and begin shrilly blowing until I demanded she stop.

This was nothing out of the ordinary. Fiercely competitive, I was certain the two of them must’ve been volleying challenges in the womb. Hence why I had a long labor---they were both probably trying to see who could exit first.

Each ferociously determined to succeed, but utilizing their individual methods. Laken was a do-it-yourselfer. Striving to learn everything herself--- no matter what the time or cost. While Yasmine had a ‘one-track’ mind. Once something was in her sights (usually of a material nature--- I believe Madonna had her in mind when she wrote that song), she set all her energy toward obtaining it. All other things became secondary.

Things like, math homework. When early math became more challenging, Yasmine frequently relied on her sister for help. “You aren’t always going to be with Laken.” I said.

She insisted I was wrong, as they’d already plotted out intertwined jobs and living arrangements which extended the rest of their lives.

Realizing arguing was fruitless, I tried another tactic. “You need to learn math yourself because you’ll need it your whole life.”

“For what?”

Playing on her love of shopping. “You have to know how much money you have to pay for things.”

“I’ll use checks.”

“You have to be able to balance a checkbook.”

Yasmine waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, my husband will do that.”

Although what both of them had in common, like most children, was desiring immediate gratification.

This resulted in additional stress upon us when Yasmine suddenly had some ‘do-dad’ in her head she had to have. Even if it was something she’d made up. Surely if she could imagine it, it must exist. Therefore we must promptly locate it…somehow.

Or when Laken decided she was learning to snap her fingers and cried for hours as she developed blisters, blamed us for our inadequate explanation of the specifics of how to snap quickly, correctly and with a perfect audible crack and refused to leave her room until she’d accomplished the task.

In essence they were both riding the same track. Laken more of the engine and Yasmine the caboose. Either way…get the heck off the tracks if they were en route to their destination.

Keep your hands and feet inside the ride

2012-01-24T01:00:00.000-08:00

“Get ready.” I assumed the position. Similar to the one I utilize on arollercoaster. Feet braced, armsoutstretched, teeth clenched and face contorted into a sympathetic smile.

Though identical in looks, ourtwins had very different personalities. As any parent of children under the age of thirteen knows, the key tomaintaining one’s sanity lies in the ability to predict the oncoming moodonslaught and deter it, if at all possible. (Onceteenage years descend, all bets are off. Leaving parents staring at offspring who look vaguely familiarphysically, but the similarities end there.)

Of the two, Yasmine wore her hearton her sleeve. No threat of counselingloomed in her later years to unearth repressed emotions, as they were out. All of them. Spewing…leaking…hanging out of every crevice by manner of tears, snot orhowling. Face contorted as the emotionalvolcano built and inevitably exploded. Once the eruption occurred, she’d retreat to her room to pen a detailednote laced heavily with idle threats intended to induce guilt regarding thepain and distress she’d suffered along with the source of the painidentified---usually Jamie or I.

When the girls acquired cellphones, we found we’d merely provided another vehicle for guilt. Normally discarded, forgotten or with a deadbattery when we requested their intended use as a safety measure. That is, until the need arose to text us,repeatedly, when either twin felt wronged in any manner, often with photosattached to display their agony if words were deemed inadequate. Leaving me to startle upon opening a picture entitled,“this is how I feel”.

I hadn’t required a photo toadequately envision how her face must appear in anguish…I’d seen that lookmany, many times.

While Laken, though sensitive likeher sister, preferred to conceal her distress and plot some method to extract revenge. When overcome by emotion she would temperthis down with the inherent knowledge that she had better methods to relieveher suffering.

Whether by…

---guilt: “I know you hate me.”

---rationalization: “It’s not my fault.” I’d yet to identify who else’s fault it couldbe.

---destruction: “Can I see your toy?”

The coveted item would then suffer an‘accident’.

---or‘secret’ venting: Only secret in hermind. In reality she was only behind theclosed door in her room, but the entire house, and neighborhood, could hear herventing about the injustice she’d incurred.

Yasmine collided into me,wailing. “Laken got her stripe and Ididn’t get mine!”

“You can get yours next time.” I patted her back and gave Laken a discreetthumbs up for her success in taekwondo, knowing any evidence of joy for theother while Yasmine remained in the throes of agony would lead to an extendeddisplay of emotion.

Yasmine’s emotional volcano would spew ontoLaken who would then retaliate, leaving me with no hope to exit the emotionalrollercoaster.

Preschool Playoffs

2012-01-17T01:00:00.000-08:00

“Look what I made, Mama.” Yasmine pulled on my pant leg.

I hastilyexamined the craft, unable to provide proper admiration for it as Yasmine hadchosen to show me this right as Laken entered the room. Before I was able to pocket the item inquestion…Laken spotted it.

They say apicture is worth a thousand words. This wasrepeatedly confirmed the year the daycare decided to separate the twins.

Two different teachers + two year old twingirls = certain disaster.

Hence my daily exit from daycaremorphed into a domino effect of psychotic meltdowns. Starting with one twin, then the other andinevitably…mine.

Once theitem in question was identified, Laken rushed for it with the ‘pretense’ ofwanting to examine it. Drawing uponprior experience, I knew this was a farce. In reality she’d determined Yasmine had gotten to do something far morefun than she had that day and had produced a lovely memento. Therefore the only logical solution for a twoyear old was… destroy it.

If Ientertained the notion that they actually wanted to see it and humored them, iteither resulted in ear-piercing wailing---at the unfairness of life for missingout on this activity, or demands to immediately commence in creating their ownreplica or thirdly…acquiring it to maim and/or obliterate. Thus resulting in certain rage from the maker,while parents and teachers would watch with haughty amusement at my inabilityto raise civilized children.

Drawingupon my psychiatric nursing skills, I’d attempted various methods to remedythis situation in a congenial manner. Istarted with educating the girls on appreciating each other. Discarding this, I moved onto discouraging injuringeach other’s possessions…or bodies---or at least not in public. Quickly resorting to promises… bribery…thenthreats until there was only one solution.

Retreat.

I’m certainword of our daily spectacle spread. I envisioned parents lining up to enjoy theshow, if only to affirm their superior parenting skills and be able to puttheir own children’s meltdowns in perspective by saying “well it could be worse, just look at those twins.”

Therefore I drew upon my limitedfootball knowledge to assist me in my hasty departure; clutching one twin undereach arm in a football hold and rushing the exit. Anyone blocking the evacuationrisked being tackled or struck by four flailing legs and arms on either side ofme.

I felt no remorse for thosesimpletons. There was plenty of forewarning of our approach as twin earsplittingscreams could be heard throughout both floors of the facility. (Thisis an understatement, as I was certain Yasmine’s future included that of operasinging.)

Hence providing ample time to pull up a chair,get your popcorn and--- move the heck out of the running field!

So, you can tell a two year oldtwin the grass may not be greener. Then she’ll make sure of it…with a lawnmower.

What Not To Wear

2012-01-10T01:00:00.000-08:00

“I didit last time! It’s Laken’s turn!” Yasmine insisted.

It wasan argument only a twin could have. Who’dbe the one to do the dreaded task of…trying on clothes. I have to admit, there were days it might beconvenient to have a body double. Althoughit’s more likely I’d use them to do more dreaded tasks than model clothing.

WithYasmine being the fashionista’ of the two, we all knew it was only a matter oftime before her resistance dissolved. OnChristmas morning, instead of fleeing to the discarded boxes immediately, as mosttwo year olds would, she went for the clothes. Layering each item without removing the priorones, like a homeless person sporting all earthly possessions.

Her fascination with clothingelevated their dresser drawers to favorite toy status. Every item removed for daily examination,trying on and discarding. Lakenparticipated in this ritual, but more for the opportunity to create a series ofstairs out of the drawers and climb to the top where binkies and otherforbidden treasures were stored.

People recoiled upon viewing theroom, demanding to know who trashed the nursery. I contemplated the criminal culprit who wouldignore the valuables and instead obsess upon tiny garments and then succumb toan irresistible compulsion to generate a clothing cyclone. I’d explain the perpetrator were those tiny, twin tornados; capableof creating massive messes in mere minutes. Most responded with disbelief, believingmy housekeeping skills to be inferior and judging me with disdain for placingthe blame upon innocent babes.

“Do you like it, Laken?” Yasmine modeled and Laken nodded whilepreoccupied with something more interesting.

“Will you wear it?” I knew she’dsay yes in fear she’d be required to try something on. Besides, I’d still buy two, for otherwise,the fighting would commence. They maynever wear it, but they want the option--- ifthey ever desired to. Like thetreadmill many utilize as a clothing rack---because you never knew when youmight use it.

While Yasmine would only wear dresses, Lakenrefused to wear anything but purple sweat suits. Taking the route of leastresistance, I housed a wardrobe of these. My fantasies of dressing my darling girls in cute matching outfits weresquelched within a year when their fierce independence reared its head.

After several attempts to persuadeLaken to expand upon her purple, knit attire, I thought I’d finally bought adress that met both of their clothing criteria. I gleefully held up the adorable dress that I’d scoured stores to findtwo their size (another twin dressing challenge—thereare never two in the same size).

Laken looked upon me with the pityof someone much older than her four years but maintained the tactlessness ofyouth in responding, “You know I’mnever going to wear that.”

“But, it’s soft and…it has a poodleon it,” I muttered, deflated. She shookher head with the exasperated look I thought I wouldn’t witness until her teenyears; at her mother’s foolishness.

Who was I to think I had morefashion sense than a four year old.

Does this barf make my butt look big?

2012-01-03T01:00:00.000-08:00

Welcometo Tuesday Twin Talk. The names haven't been changed because unbeknownst to mytwins, we have a deal. I raise them with love and they give me fodder forstories that may make up for blank pages in their baby books. And really howimportant is the first step when I can't remember which one it was and by thetime they care, walking won't be all that eventful anymore anyway?

I glanced into the mirror. Hours of scouring my closet had finallyproduced something that fit and was flattering; an accomplishment at fourmonths after giving birth to twins. Granted my feet had returned to non-Fred Flintstone-like appearance andI was able to maneuver without fear of my belly taking out unsuspectingfurniture or people due to my inability to judge my physical boundaries whenthe girls were taking up residence in my belly. But my wardrobe choices reminded me that I wasn’t back to my oldself.

“Are youready yet?”

This was our first real outing with beingsable to converse in words rather than unintelligible noises or crying forimmediate pacification of their needs. Iwas eager to wear something not chosen based upon its ability for feedingaccess or quick clean-up from various bodily fluids.

My ‘go-to outfit’ since the girlsarrived was a pair of green corduroy overalls. They provided comfort and multiplepockets for storing necessities for juggling two infants. The fact that there was no actual waist insuch attire was a definite plus. No woman wanted to be reminded they were missingthis desired body part. But since I was over age ten and not starring in GreenAcres, that outfit wouldn’t be the one I’d choose. Not if I wanted to present with the I’m-not-just-a-vessel-for-food-and-basic-needs-for-infantslook.

“Let me say goodbye to thegirls.” I gave Laken a kiss then scoopedup Yasmine. In my haste, I’d completelydisregarded the nickname Yasmine had been bestowed with. That is, until she choose to remind me ofit….Yakman.

Both girls seem to suffer from aninordinate, vast amount of endless regurgitation. The wise proceeded withcaution when they held them, often donning a towel for protection beforeproceeding. Yasmine reigned supreme. With a quantity and span that put the Exorcist girl to shame, she morphed intoa miniature fountain.

Rivulets of vomit raced down theknit inlets provided by my ‘hand-wash’ black sweater, the quantity supersedingthe sweaters ability to absorb or stem the flow. Due to Yasmine’s hair-trigger ability to producevast amounts of puke, one was generally unable to react with sufficient speedto avoid a dousing. My delayed response,in which I held her at arms length, only increased the surface area she wasable to cover and splattered my pants as well.

I shrieked. This, of course, set off the twin sirens whenthey heard my distress. I thrust Yasmineto Grandma while rushing to strip to rinse my clothes while my husband tapped hiswatch.

This wasn’t a little spot whichcould be successfully removed--- only to leave that distinctive lingering odorof ‘baby’ mothers tried to mask with cologne… generally forgetting a tinytell-tale spot that gave away their charade of a clean, vomit-free outfit. No, I got a full bathing.

Hence we rushed to meet our friends. After a few cursory glances at my attire,which was in direct contrast to their night-out polished looks, I spared themthe human burp cloth story. I consideredweaving a tale of the upcoming potato-sack styles.

This couple was still childless,hence not yet developed a tolerance for baby vomit conversations at the dinnertable; that and the inability to comprehend why anyone would ever wear...farm-attire for an evening out.

“There are many wonderfulthings that will never be done if you do not do them.”

~Charles D. Gill

New Years... Retribution

2011-12-27T01:00:00.000-08:00

“We get to stay up untilmidnight?” Yasmine said with awe, asthey’d never been permitted, or physically capable, of staying up this late inall of their five years. Although theirdesire to stay up past this hallowed hour battled with their irrational fearthat inanimate objects came to life in the deep hours of the night.

“Allthe kids will be staying up to watch the ball drop at midnight.” Although Iharbored doubt the twins would actually make it. They tended to wake prior to the crack ofdawn and any consent to stay up late was initially met with enthusiasm, thenexhaustion, leading to imminent collapse long before the extended bedtime.

“Whatare they looking at?” Laken pointed atthe ‘Rockin’ New Years Eve’ program on television and the crowds in Times Square

“They’re waiting for the ball to drop.”

Yasmine’seyes bulged as she turned to the screen as the clock counted down. “But they’re… they’re just standing there?”

“Somepeople have been waiting there all day.” In fact a friend who’d once attended admitted she’d donned an adultdiaper due to the inability to leave to tend to such necessities once thefestivities began at Times Square. Iremained content to watch it within the comforts of heat and indoorplumbing. I didn’t share this tidbitwith the twins for it would certainly lead to incessant questions about adultincontinence products.

Thegirls exchanged a look and slid closer to the screen, eyes fixed on the ball.

Aclamor of noise indicated 2006 had arrived.

Silver hats, obnoxious horns and noisemakerstempted the other children to abandon their spot on the carpet to obtainthem. But these trinkets wereunsuccessful in luring my twins away from the television. Quite the surprise, since anything shiny orwith the capability to make an insufferable noise was generally foundirresistible.

“When’sit going to drop?” They asked, lookingeerily like the ‘Poltergeist girl’ as they sat mesmerized.

“Itdid.”

Yasminepointed at the screen. “No, look! It’sstill on the pole. It didn’t drop.”

“Oh,well it doesn’t actually drop; it slides down the pole to the bottom.”

“That’sit? It doesn’t fall off?”

Inodded. Apparently they’d been waitingto see the ball hurl off of the pole to drop onto the people waiting below likea boulder breaking free. Hence theirmorbid fascination that a crowd would gather in order to start the New Yearwaiting to be annihilated or maimed by a giant ball had provided them with thestamina to stay up until midnight for the first time in their life.

Thefact that the permission to participate in the adults gruesome ritual ofreducing a willing population with a giant ball had not panned out as they’d anticipated and that their toys were notwaiting to converse upon return home…certainly took some of the luster out ofthe desire to stay awake into the midnight hours.

Christmas Stalking

2011-12-20T01:00:00.000-08:00

Welcome to TuesdayTwin Talk. The names haven't been changed because unbeknownst to my twins, wehave a deal. I raise them with love and they give me fodder for stories thatmay make up for blank pages in their baby books. And really how important isthe first step when I can't remember which one it was and by the time theycare, walking won't be all that eventful anymore anyway?

“Did you see Bobby?”

“No.” Bobby was our Elf on the Shelf, which Iavoided looking at whenever possible. I’d remained unable to comprehend their love of the Elf, although they’dnever been subjected to movies like Magic.

As a child, I’ddesperately wanted a ventriloquist doll. That is, until one extra trip to the bathroom after bedtime. A peek into the living room where my parentswere watching Magic , resulted in an immediate reduction ofmy Christmas list by one freaky-deek doll that may come to life to kill me.

Bobby’s overly cheerfulelf face, though eerily following my every move, didn’t seem sufficient enough tocause me such distress. Iremained unable to pinpoint the source of his creepiness.

Until now.

It was his feet.

Or absence of them. Even a disproportioned arched Barbie footwould’ve been more acceptable than the pointed, insect-like ends resembling aspider. Like the doll from Magic hadreturned after being joined with a spider resulting in a smaller, more compactform--- guaranteeing better ambushing opportunities.

I don’t know if I ever would’ve discovered thesource of my uneasiness if it hadn’t been for the note. The same night we learned it’s not a goodidea to respond to elf questionnaires after a few drinks.

Most people hadonly the burden of moving their elf each night. Our girls had taken it to the next level. Rationalizing that since Bobby is traveling to the North Pole eachnight, there’s no reason why he can’t take letters to Santa--- including other kid’s not lucky enough to have an elf…and leavea detailed reply.

Attempts atignoring the notes were met with varying persistence from increasing demands tobribes of nightly snacks and gifts as they tried to determine his foodpreferences and tokens to keep him company as he traveled. Hence our elf journeyed clutching a smallstuffed dog, wearing a hairband-necklacearound his neck and a tiny yellow slinky on his cap. (The gift of a jacket abandoned due to hisunfortunate inability to unclasp his stitched hands to slip them through thearm holes.)

Like mostadults, who can only endure so much torment without seeking any method to stoppersistent harassment, we caved. Mistakenly thinking we might be able to outwit two imaginative minds.

“Bobby” responded to the note, informing thetwins that he was age 'zero'---hence, unable to complete such demands. Thus they determined schooling was in orderand ‘homework’ was assigned for Bobby. Requesting paragraphs be written about him and his family, drawings ofhis home with Santa...

So when my hubbyresponded that Bobby really wanted shoes for Christmas… we were all perplexed. The girls--- pondering where to find shoes to fit the footless elf. Me as to whyrequest something impossible--- which I‘d surely be called upon to find.

Even my hubby was puzzled by hisown answer…blamingit on the beer talking. However Ithought perhaps it was his secret desire, matching mine, to cover thosepointed-spider-like appendages.

“There are manywonderful things that will never be done if you do not do them.”

~ Charles D. Gill

The Trial of Santa Claus

2011-12-13T01:00:00.000-08:00

Welcome to TuesdayTwin Talk. The names haven't been changed because unbeknownst to my twins, wehave a deal. I raise them with love and they give me fodder for stories thatmay make up for blank pages in their baby books. And really how important isthe first step when I can't remember which one it was and by the time theycare, walking won't be all that eventful anymore anyway?

“Do you believe in Santa?”

My handstensed on the steering wheel. Trapped alone in the car with the twins wasthe equivalent of their interrogation room. At their mercy, with no escape and few available distractions to veer aninquisitive nine year-old off topic.

I envisioned them clusteringtogether prior to embarking, determining just how it was going down. Would it be the good twin, bad twin approach? Or just a simultaneous bombardment ofquestions until the pressure of maintaining control while dealing with roadrage and deflecting questions became too much and I cracked.

Some topics I’d been assaulted within this manner included childbirth, sex and tampons. A future in the legal system could bepromising if all proceedings took place in the confines of a minivan. Theirservices could also be successfully utilized by the government; breaking even thetoughest prisoner to flee the grilling of the twin tormentors.

“I believein the magic of Christmas.” My standard reply,aka: avoidance tactic.

“I don’twant to hear about the magic of Christmas! We want to know if you put those presents under thetree!”

I babbled. The magic of the season, true meanings ofChristmas, family…but twin interrogators ruthlessly demanded--- Answer TheQuestion!

So that’s how it was goingdown. Court had begun and I was thereluctant witness.

I met their inquisitive eyes in therear view mirror. “What do your friendssay?”

A lookpassed between them. “Some say it’s their parents.”

Ifloundered. “Well, the magic of Christmas---”

“We don’t wantto hear about the magic! We want to know who puts the presents under the tree!”

I reallyneeded to work on my standard reply. Magic just wasn’t cutting it. “Why? Why doesit matter?”

“Because thenwe won’t have to leave out cookies and milk.” Both girls giggled.

I sat silent. Hoping the moment hadpassed.

“Do you put those presents under the tree?” Laken demanded.

I took adeep breath. They’re ready. “Yes---” I bit my tongue when a glancerevealed twin crumpled, crushed, crying faces.

“Why are you crying?” I’d thought they wereready.

“You saidthere’s no Santa!” Yasmine keened.

“No! Ididn’t.”

“You saidyou put the presents under the tree!” Laken wailed.

“Well, I ahh…alwaysput some presents under the tree.”

“You saidyou put the ones from Santa there.”

Sweat beadedon my forehead. I could end it now. Mynine-year-old babies eagerly awaited my reply.

“Well,sometimes I do, because…err…he leaves them on the table and then… I put themunder the tree!”

The wailingand whimpering slowed. “Why?”

“He doesn’talways have time to get them under the tree, so I, ahh…help him.”

Both girlscontemplated this. We entered thehairdressers. I held my breath as a child went by. I waited for the twins to blurt how I’d justkilled off Santa.

Not a word was said.

That day I realized I may be many things, butI could never be a Santa killer.

“There are manywonderful things that will never be done if you do not do them.”

~ Charles D. Gill

The Fright before Christmas

2011-12-06T01:00:00.000-08:00

“When can we put up the Christmas decorations?”

“We have allday.” I rolled over. Hoping they’d wait for sunrise and adequatecaffeine consumption, although I knew the incessant harassment would continueuntil we complied...just to make it stop.

This relentless daily requeststarted earlier each year. Possibly dueto aggressive retail marketing or just the twins desire to fill our home with gaudydécor; deeming no decoration too tattered, old or hideous to evade exhibition. We tried to delay, insisting Halloween andThanksgiving came prior. Therefore, oncethe last person sat down on turkey day, the twins primed to whip out everyholiday bauble.

That old bird had nothing on thefat man.

Hence the day after Thanksgivingwas deemed decorating day.

The firstyear, the artificial, rotating tree proved to be the greatest mobile ever. I’d plop the girls down and the multicoloredlights and shiny ornaments transported cranky, tired infants into enraptured ecstasy.

Year two resulted in decorationsending abruptly halfway down the tree. Sparklyornaments continued to fascinate sixteen-month old twins, but were at risk ofbeing eaten or utilized as a weapon.

Their ceaseless removal of every ornamentshould’ve forewarned me their actual intent was not mere fascination, but the certaintythat they were, in fact, better decorators.

Noneof the ornaments we’d carefully collected over the years were displayedduring year three. Instead… we had arotating display of their toy box.

The tree groaned while attemptingto teeter around on the revolving base, leaning precariously due to beingoverburdened by every doll, block and gizmo crammed into its branches.

A stuffed motion-activated Elmo, whichburst into his trademark cackle when anyone walked by, was disturbing, but notnearly as much as the girls favorite doll glaring out from the branches. Knownfor bringing terror to those familiar with horror movies featuring a murderous,freckle-faced doll sporting a shock of red hair.

But to our girls, who’d discovereddad’s retired, car window, suction-cup, toy meant to intimidate passersby’s;they’d found the only doll they truly loved.

Unable to be lured by the dollsmost three-year old girls coveted, oblivious of his past homicidal nature, ourspreferred--- Chucky.

Not realizing hewasn’t really a good guy, or perhapsthinking his scowl could be eradicated with a little love.

We’d tolerated it when they’ddressed him in doll clothes; propping him in their highchair. We’d endured wary glances at daycare whenthey brought him in a stroller; those who’d innocently peeked beneath theblanket traumatized by his malicious glare. Our distress of leaving ourheirlooms packed away for this year, forcing us to behold not silver and gold,but junk and a red-haired punk was tempered at their joy of their prizedpossessions being honored on our tree.

That year we realized Chucky was likelythe first boy of many the girls may come to love that we wouldn’t approve of, butfor them, we’d endure it.

Do you believe in magic

2011-11-29T01:00:00.000-08:00

Welcome to TuesdayTwin Talk. The names haven't been changed because unbeknownst to my twins, wehave a deal. I raise them with love and they give me fodder for stories thatmay make up for blank pages in their baby books. And really how important isthe first step when I can't remember which one it was and by the time theycare, walking won't be all that eventful anymore anyway?

“I asked Santa for a robot that canclean my room and do homework.” Yasmine’seyes lit up the way only someone under double digits in age could.

While she envisioned her lessdesirable tasks delegated, I momentarily pictured something like ‘Rosie’ fromthe Jetsons cleaning the house. Butunfortunately, being slightly past age seven, my fantasy was quickly invaded byreality.

“Honey, don’t you think if something like that existed Iwould’ve asked for it years ago?”

“Santa can make it.” Yasmineinsisted. “He’s magic, he can makeanything.”

“Santa only makes things from stores. Sometimes he even gets stuff from the store.”I tried to increase my chances of actually acquiring what was desired. Instead of another disappointment like lastyear when the toy horse requested, wasn’t ‘Santa-upgraded’ so you could ride itaround the house.

If fictional itemswere available, my list would be much longer with items like calorie-freechocolate and energy cards that delivered what its name promised instead of anoverpriced-clutter-contributing-trading card.

“Or he puts the toyshe makes in the stores.” I added, for when I forget to remove the price tag.

Resembling a tangledweb, I’d added to the illusion each year. Like leaving wrapping paper out for Santa ifhe runs out---that’s why we have the same paper. Or changing the ratio of toys from us versusSanta when the girls protested donating toys because those must be the bad kids or Santa would’ve brought them toys.

"What about you, Laken?” I hoped for something that existed.

“I’m asking for a magic wand that can do magic, like make me fly and stuff.”

Of course. She can’tbe outdone by her twin.

“I don’t think you can get that or everyone would already haveone.”

Laken rolled her eyes as if talking to a simpleton. “Theyjust didn’t think to ask Santa for one.”

This was payback from all the years I’d eagerly anticipatedthe Christmas season, because with it came access to the most coveted parentingtool. That could turn two screamingthree year olds into angels faster than I could say…The Santa hotline.

Despite years of attempting to obtain the ‘parents-only phonenumber’ to call Santa to explain their latest misadventure, they remainedunsuccessful. In their doubt they’d questioned why it wasn’t on my phone. I’dsaid, “Do you think I would really list it under Santa?”

I’d start utilizing this threat as early as October. Too late realizing I’d given up my covetedspot. Santa gave the best toys and could squeeze his massive girth into ourchimney-less house while I struggled with pre-pregnancy clothes. He fit abazillion toys in his sleigh while I barely fit the vacation stuff in ourmini-van. He remembered every child while the girls commented how his phonenumber must be really easy or I’d never remember it.

I hadn’t considered that two could play at this game, andwhen these two put their headstogether…I end up outnumbered.

“There are manywonderful things that will never be done if you do not do them.”

~ Charles D. Gill

For the love of...raspberries

2011-11-22T01:00:00.000-08:00

Welcome to Tuesday Twin Talk. The names haven't been changedbecause unbeknownst to my twins, we have a deal. I raise them with love andthey give me fodder for stories that may make up for blank pages in their babybooks. And really how important is the first step when I can't remember whichone it was and by the time they care, walking won't be all that eventfulanymore anyway?

The knockechoed through the bedroom door. Iopened it and came face to face with Laken. Well, not quite face to face sinceshe was only nine and not yet five feet tall.

I looked down at what she clutchedin her hands. A container of raspberries.Then up to meet her gaze.

She was giving me…the look.

You know the one. It creeps through your eyes into your verysoul, finding that secret spot where guilt resides. Thelook is generally honed after years of enduring it from one’s mother untilyou’ve had your own children and were able to replicate it. The number of children and years of marriage oftenenhancing the strength and abilities of one’s look. It’s power enabling one to often achieve goals effortlessly.

Generally unheard of at such a young age, butperhaps through the process of evolution, or since with a twin they could practiceon from birth expedited its perfection…but somehow, someway, my girls were ableto throw out their own version of thelook, which was often surprisingly effective.

“Oh, you found them.” I averted my eyes. Almost more embarrassed that my ‘secret stash’wasn’t chocolate or liquor but coveted fruit. “I was going to share them.”

Laken didn’tlook convinced.

“It was just for a few days.” A wash of guilt came over me for hiding them,but somehow raspberries made an ordinary snack more decadent. The girls had inherited this love aswell. While I was able to extend theenjoyment, savoring a few berries at a time, my girls, knowing nothing aboutdelaying gratification, would consume the entire tray in one sitting.

It wasn’t like I was really hiding them, so Itold myself. They were in plain sight inthe extra refrigerator…if they chooseto look there.

“Could you save me some for mycereal tomorrow?”

Her eyes continued to bore into me. Conveyingthat she knew… that I knew… that she knew- the rest she left for the guilt towork it’s magic. Eroding away at myinsides.

As silently as she arrived, sheturned and walked away. Leaving me towallow in my discomfort.

“They leftyou something.” Jamie informed me when Iarrived downstairs.

“Really?” Even with the best intentions, the girls haddifficulty in leaving an adequate serving, most likely inheriting this traitfrom their uncle who had similar tendencies. Even going so far as leaving the empty box in its designated space, asif not actually disposing of the evidence meant they hadn’t really finished it. So I was pleasantly surprised that they’dhonored my request.

I pulledout the container where it was stored back in my not-so-secret hiding place. Onelone raspberry stood in the middle of the container. The red stained lining depicted the remnantsof its gobbled comrades.

A heart-shaped sticky note wasplaced on the outside of the container. It stated, “Enjoy your cereal.”

I heardgiggling.

Apparently ‘some’ required a betterdefinition.

“There are many wonderful things that will never be done ifyou do not do them.”

~ Charles D. Gill

Dancing with Scars

2011-11-15T01:00:00.000-08:00

           “Open.” Yasmine clampedher mouth as I balanced her on the counter, trying to force the medicine filledsyringe into the 18-month old twin.
              Laken sat wailing on the kitchen floor, desiring myattentions, but not the icky medicine that came with it.
              There was something to be said about sharing when it came to sickness,but so far, gumming of every toy and slurping each other’s drinks at everyopportunity made prevention almost impossible.
              Each time I came in the proximity of her gaping, screamingmouth, Yasmine clamped it shut. Isqueezed past her gums and pushed the plunger in.
              At the same time she pressed her tongue against it.
             She looked triumphantas a tiny dribble bubbled down her chin. The rest had exploded onto my shirt, face and arms in a splatter of pink,sticky goo.
            I grit my teeth in a manic,sleep-deprived smile that came across somewhat like The Joker. “Come on, it tastes yummy!” My voice rose into that falsetto sing-song adultsused for small children and those they fear a bit addled. “Like bubblegum.”
           Laken had fallen silent. Not good.
            I snuck a peek. She was reaching for the dog dish. “Laken,no!”
           This, of course, only expedited her progress toward the foodand water dish combo, strangely prohibited despite closely resembling tasty cereal.
             I scooped Yasmine up and hustled across the kitchenfloor.
             I almost made it.
             Laken grabbed the dish and flippedit, spilling dog food and water across the kitchen floor in a flood ofmarble-like kernels that sought my feet.
            Unable to stop the momentum I’dbuilt up, I shuffled around with one arm flailing for balance as the other clutchedYasmine to my hip. She protested as weskated around in a manic dance.
           Laken looked on withinterest while Bummy glared. Ticked off that in addition to endless tortureby twin terrors his dinner was now being utilized for entertainment.
           As my feet surrendered to theinevitable and flew out from under me, spraying dog food to all corners of thekitchen, maternal instinct kicked in. I pulledYasmine to my front, protecting her from being crushed…but leaving me withnothing to break my fall.
          The finale to the macabre danceended abruptly as I landed on my back with a thump. Wet mushy dog food soaked into my hair and slimy,dog-tongued water seeped into my every crevice.
            Yasmine continued screeching. She hadn’t foreseen our jerky, sporadic jigending so rudely. Laken wailed as thefun had concluded and she remembered I was holding her sister. Leaving her sittingon the floor with an irritated dog looking everything like a toy except for thesharp teeth, rotten breath and slightly crazed expression.
          Motionless for the first time today,I was unsure whether I wanted to get up. My body protested any movement after the painful landing.
          I pondered…perhaps this was what was meant about not sweatingthe small stuff when you’re lying in a pile of wet stuff.

The greatest show...in our hallway

2011-11-08T01:00:00.000-08:00

“Ladies and Gentlemen! Boys and Girls! Petsand people of all ages! Welcome to the circus!”

I was betting no one else had a circus intheir house at six a.m. on Sunday. Atleast it was past five o’clock.

Although pets were included in the invitation, Bummy didn’t budge. He ranked himself higher than a mere pet,besides he’d previously determined there was no real food at this circus. The playdough treats offered from the stuffedanimal circus vendors were met with his disdain and rejected.

Plus there was his fear of beingrecruited. Justifiably after severalunsuccessful attempts to strap a doll on his back to act as an elephant stand-in.

“Mama!Daddy!” Laken bellowed. “Don’t worry! We’ll shut your door so wedon’t wake you up!” The door rattled on its hinges as it slammed.

I tried to pretend there was an actualpossibility of returning to sleep.

“Dut-dut-dut-a-lut-a-dut-dut-dut-a-lutta!” Both girls sang out repeatedly as stuffedanimals and dolls performed. I knew this,for although generally the circus only comes once a year, lately it had beencoming to our hallway at the crack of dawn on the weekends.

The door burst open and Yasmineerupted in, toting her most beloved possession, her doll Gabryella.

Laken’s most hated enemy.

Gabryella was honing in on Laken’sterritory. When each twin made apicture book, Laken’s was entitled “My Family”. Filled with images of her and Yasmine highlighting each page. While Yasmine’s was entitled “Me and Gabryella” with eachpage depicting the two of them, minus Laken, enjoying various activities.

That was the last straw.

“Mama! Come see the trapeze act!”

“In aminute.”

“Mama!You have to come now!” Yasmine pulled withall the strength her five year old body could muster.

Knowingresistance was futile, I stumbled out while being chastised for stepping onseveral of the circus performers lining the hallway.

“Look, Mama!” Laken tied a Barbie dolls’ foot onto thestring secured across the top of the stairway. The doll swung back and forth a few times, but due to Laken’s inabilityto tie a strong knot, it flopped down onto the carpet.

Both girls looked for my responseto this amazing act they’d pretty much replicated from the circus we’d seen twomonths ago- or so I’d tell them with enthusiasm when I was awake later in theday. For now I feigned as much excitement as I could at this early,caffeine-free hour. “Wow.” I turned to stagger away.

“Wait, Mama! You didn’t seeGabryella.”

Before I could protest that thestring wouldn’t hold Gabryella’s weight, Laken tied her on and pulled thestring back… with a small, secret smile.

With the forward swing the stringbroke and Gabryella barreled down the stairs to rest at the bottom in a tangleof plastic limbs. Yasmine wailed and rusheddown to claim her battered baby.

Laken performed the best act of theday-- feigning concern of her fallen adversary.

Guilt is a dish best served...in a pink Barbie suitcase

2011-11-01T01:00:00.000-07:00

“We’re running away.” One twin announced, solemnly standing by her replica, pink Barbie suitcases in hand.
This was new. Previously I was notified of a potential change of residence or general displeasure by a suitcase strategically placed by the garage door. Packed with a stuffed bear and pounds of intended guilt.
I’d grown up in a family where guilt was an effective method to achieve a desired result. Wielded like a stealth weapon, often silently succeeding in achieving victory before the recipient was aware they were being played like a marionette. Even with an awareness that guilt was at play, one may be unable to resist succumbing, crippled like kryptonite to Superman.

It appeared that this was an inherited trait. Though my girls were unaware that I’d developed somewhat of a guilt-immunity after long-term, frequent exposure.
“Oh?” I acted nonplussed to the irritation of the two who’d expected perhaps howling or beating of my chest. “You know you’re not allowed out of the yard.”
“We aren’t. We’re staying in the tree house.”
Though moving up in the ‘I’m-running-away’ threat by planning on actually leaving the house, apparently the girls hadn’t realized when you ran away you weren’t supposed to; one- announce your location or two- choose the coldest day of winter thus far and three- escape to their so-called ‘tree-house’ in the backyard which lacked a roof. But, this was their first attempt and they were only five years old.
“You do realize how cold it is outside?”
Their heads bobbed in unison. “We’ve got three pair of pants on and two shirts.” They gestured to their extremities. Bulky, but not padded to the degree of ‘A Christmas Story’ where their arms stuck straight out like useless T-Rex appendages.
I raised an eyebrow, as their bravado didn’t fool me. One of them could barely make it across the parking lot the other day without yelling about her near death experience from the cold temperature. “Okay.”
“We’ll be having our lunch and dinner out there.” They hoisted up a bag containing a box of crackers, granola bars and water. Barely enough to sustain these two eating machines for a few hours, let alone all day.
“But don’t lock the door in case we get scared at night and need to come in.” Apparently the fear of freezing to death or starvation was not enough to frighten them as much as the mere thought of the boogey-men.
“And we’ll need to come in tonight to get a bath.” Laken, generally a bath-hater, chimed in. “Plus, breakfast and getting ready for school.”
Yasmine glanced out at the mounds of snow in the tree house. “We just need to get a few blankets to sleep with.” They wandered upstairs, never to return to fulfill their threat.
Apparently feeling as if their guilt-inflicting mission succeeded without being required to go out into the cold, later I put the Barbie suitcase, the teddy bear, two tired twins, and any guilt to bed… for the night.

The birds and the bees...Jack Nicholson Style

2011-10-25T01:00:00.000-07:00

“Why do I have to wear it?” Yasmine’s bellow reverberated off the restroom walls of the Ice Rink. I held the tight, spandex hockey pants, which sported a little pocket in the front for the plastic guard. With the other gear named according to the part they were protecting; shin guards, elbow pads; it made sense that the girls referred to these as their ‘pee-pee guard’ pants.
“Honey, just put them on,” I glanced at my watch. “It’s almost time to get on the ice.” A vast assortment of hockey gear still waited in the locker room. My six year old girls, who usually laughed at the idea of modesty, drew the line at putting on the ‘pee-pee pants’ in front of the other girls, despite them all wearing similar attire.
“But why?” Yasmine crossed her arms. “Why do I have to wear them?”
“You just have to.”
“But why?” She scowled.
“Just put them on.”
“Why?”
“So you can give me grandbabies someday---”
“YOU mean a BABY is going to come OUT of my PEE-PEE?!” Yasmine’s eyes bulged and her hand instinctively covered the part in question.
“Ahh, err…” I scrambled for an explanation. Certain that quoting the ‘you can’t handle the truth’ line wasn’t going to suffice.
The other equipment was easy to explain for protecting body parts which had a clearly defined role in daily life, but the ‘pee-pee’ guard was largely to protect from injury from a puck gone astray or if you fell onto the blade of the skate in a most unfortunate area.
Plus we were in a public restroom. I envisioned other women and young girls pausing mid-stream to hear my explanation to the age-old ‘where-do-babies-come-from’ question. Until now, the most we had delved into this subject was that girls had eggs that grew babies; which we’d had to make known when they demanded to know why daddy didn’t have one of them in his belly.
And that the doctor took the baby out of ‘the bellybutton’; which I didn’t really consider as lying-- the girls just assumed this since the bellybutton is another role-less body part…I just didn’t deny it. Besides, some women do require a c-section and it is kind-of near the bellybutton. I just wasn’t telling the ‘full-truth’.
Our girls were intrigued by the idea of carrying eggs in their bellies. Once informed of this, they were concerned with their ability to care for their ‘eggs’. Often claiming they needed to ‘feed them’. They’d use this when they wanted an extra snack saying, “My eggs are hungry, mama.” As if my depriving them of a snack would in essence be starving my future grandchildren.
“Err…They’re to protect your eggs! You know, in case the skate would hit your belly and hurt your eggs.”

The terror faded from Yasmine’s face. “Oh, okay.”
I breathed a sigh of relief and slipped the shorts on, buying myself another day until they, and I, could ‘handle the truth’.

Kicked off the island...

2011-10-18T01:30:00.000-07:00

“Shopping and dinner! Is that too much to ask?” Apparently it was. I’d made a hasty exit as my friends, and most of the mall, witnessed my wired five year old twins who’d forgotten the chain of command. Outplayed.I glanced into the rearview mirror at the averting of eyes, and most likely ears, from my rant as we drove home.I continued my tirade regarding their unsatisfactory behavior while pulling into the garage. I raged on as the girls went into the house through the garage. Still muttering, I gathered my things and went to open the door that led into the house. It was locked.Outwitted. Apparently the lecture on the ride home had been their limit. Picturing them exchanging glances saying, “Had enough?” Nodding, and then locking me out to enjoy roaming without restrictions and relieve their ears of my ranting. “OPEN. THE. DOOR!” I beat the door to no avail. They were probably giggling at their brilliance while watching cartoons with a dinner of gummies. In the game of parental survivor where one is always being tested to outthink a fledgling mind, let alone two of them, this was as effective as putting out my torch which boasted control of amenities such as snacking and bedtimes. I increased the intensity of door beating and yelling, pondering my fate at the mercy of five year olds who apparently felt they’d enjoy the rest of their evening without my presence. In the back of my mind I noted the quietness of the neighborhood and my voice echoing through the garage. I envisioned the neighbor’s eyes widening as they felt the parental ranks being infiltrated and the temptation for mutiny forming so used it as an opportunity to shine saying, “See you’re lucky you have normal parents,” smugly pointing across the street. “Not like that crazy woman.” Yet this didn’t stop my outburst as I felt the thin thread of parental control being tested and had to play upon their fear of my authority…despite being on the other side of a locked door in the cold, dark garage.As my voice cracked and wavered, I heard the click of the lock. I stumbled through in a cloud of fury as Laken turned and walked away; as if resigned she’d better let me in- even though it was a great inconvenience and a real downer to their evening.I trailed her. “You will never, ever go shopping again!” I stood with my hands on my hips, the image of power.Laken looked calm in the face of my tirade. “Yes, we will.” I floundered. “You will NOT!” I shook my finger to seal the deal. “Yes, we will.” Laken shrugged. “You’ll forget.” She turned and left me flabbergast.“No I won’t!” I stuttered even though she’d already determined that although my memory had shortcomings I would need to go to a store again eventually and had a lack of a live-in babysitter to enforce their retail restriction. Outlasted.

Two for One

2011-10-11T01:30:00.000-07:00

“Will it hurt?” One of the twins asked as we pulled into the doctor’s office. “Only a little pinch.” I playfully pinched each. “That’s not bad, is it?” Both nodded somberly as if weighing this against their desire to be ‘big girls’. The exam went smoothly and I sighed with relief. I’d worried this would mimic last year. Ending with me crawling around dragging Laken out of the corner she’d wedged herself in. Curled in a fetal position between the wall and baby scale, screaming. “Let’s do one at a time.” The girls had already hashed it out, because no one wants to be first. A coin toss, threats, bribes and/or rock, paper or scissors were how decisions were made at age seven. Laken had lost. Jamie took Yasmine out to the waiting room and I sat on the table with Laken on my lap, facing me while holding her in a hug. Another nurse entered the room carrying two shots. She followed my gaze, “Don’t worry, we’ll do them both at the same time.” The nurses circled their unwilling victim, needles in hand, as Laken began to squirm and cry. Using her feet, she braced against the wall and tried to free herself. I struggling to hold onto my greased piglet err…daughter. The needles simultaneously pierced her arms; exactly when her scream most likely ruptured my ear drums. I envisioned every child in the waiting room stopping mid-play to gaze at the closed door in terror at what sort of torture awaited them. Including Yasmine, who would recognize her sister’s voice, now forewarned that this was no ‘so-called- pinch’ to cause such agony in her sister. Jamie who was also certain to regret not going first. The nurse’s lips moved soundlessly, as the shrill wail continued from Laken’s bottomless lungs, battering my brain. By then she had fallen into her old standby of ‘I’m going to make myself vomit because you’ve upset me so much.’ As the heaving started I leaned back to get a better look at her face streaked with snail trails of tears , eyes squinted so tightly shut that they’d all but disappeared into her head. “It’s all done, honey. You did great.” I whispered this mantra while patting her back. At least I thought I whispered, but I could no longer hear my own voice. For all I knew I could’ve been bellowing it as one does to those we think may be hard of hearing just because they look old. Finally she stopped the sobbing and retching for a moment to ask, “Why did I have to get Yasmine’s shot too?” “You didn’t.” I soothed her. “Does she have to get two shots, too?” I nodded and Laken’s crying dried up like an empty well. “Do I get a sticker?” “Yes.”She smiled despite them being the same sticker selection she’d had since birth. Stickers were a marvelous thing. Sometimes it was good to be first.

A Killer Amongst Us

2011-10-04T01:00:00.000-07:00

“I think you and dad killed Harold.”

Granted I wasn’t particularly fond of hermit crabs. They looked more along the lines of spiders with claws. But I wouldn’t stoop to murder. That would require touching them. Yasmine pointed at her plate. “Where did you get these crab cakes?” I choked on the forkful in my mouth. Harold had been large, but wouldn’t suffice for dinner. At least Yasmine had moved past the wailing in her grieving process, now focused on finding the killer. This was good, for the mourning period was usually quite extensive. Involving eulogies, lengthy services and beating of chests. This was especially exasperating when Laken acquired then quickly expired pet worms on a daily basis. Each morning we’d awake to weeping and Laken could be found, butter dish in hand, sitting at the top of the steps with the remnants of ‘Wormy’ rattling around like a meager maraca. One benefit of worms was they were cheap and easily replaced. But the daily death of Wormy became predictable, so the girls moved on to toads. More challenging to locate, but more lively. Both girls found them cute and loveable despite their unpleasant appearance and tendency to urinate on everything. I put my foot down on lodging these lumpy creatures in our house when a missing one was located in my shoe. I explained to the girls that the toads were mourning their own slimy families while trapped in our human abode. Releasing them brought them joy to reunite with their warty relatives. Plus they tended to die quickly in captivity.

With their indistinctive appearance, each time another was located, the girls were certain they’d located a long-lost friend. Except for ‘Fatty McFatty’, who appeared to be a direct descendent from Jabba the Hut. He was spotted like a sighting of the Loch Ness Monster. You thought it was a toad, but couldn’t quite believe it. Though Yasmine’s accusation was untrue, there did seem to be foul play amongst the hermit crabs. Their numbers were dwindling rapidly and only three of six remained. We didn’t have long to wait before fate intervened and it was ‘Bacon Bits’ turn to die. While I pondered some type of crab contagion, the girls examined the evidence to acquire justice for their fallen friends. Since Bacon Bit was a tiny, tidbit of a crab, I hoped my name would be removed from the list of hungry suspects. I braced myself for the wailing as the girls huddled together over the habitat. Instead they announced their theory. “We’ve noticed Jerry and Mr. Fiddlestick have been spending a lot of time together.” Laken stated. “They were both in the hermie hut together.” Yasmine threw out clue number two. “We think they’ve killed off all the others so they can be alone.” In their minds, the Hermit Crab Killer case was closed. “Wouldn’t it be cute if there were a bunch of baby hermit crabs running around?” Yasmine smiled broadly as she closed Bacon Bit in his cardboard coffin in preparation for burial. Apparently murder was justifiable if it was done in the name of love.

Dream Weaver

2011-09-27T01:00:00.000-07:00

The time had finally arrived. The end of night feedings and changings. Endless rocking and Nick at Night TV. The cast of Good Times, Coach and Sanford & Son now personal friends. That’s when the nightmares began. Perhaps they’d always had them and been unable to express their terror due to limited or non-existent verbal skills. Being a long-time sufferer of vivid nightmares I could sympathize, and perhaps felt guilt they’d inherited this trait. I knew the distress an overactive imagination could bring, but also the joys. I could recalling my favorite childhood dream of flying. I’d hoped to end what I’d come to think of as my S.O.S. saga, otherwise known as, “In Search Of Sleep”. Reluctant to leave this earth with my tombstone engraved, “She finally got some rest”. I utilized and invented every method to procure a few more minutes of sleep. Nightlights, dream catchers, monster sprays and flashlights, only a few of the props I tried alongside verbal reassurances and nights spent sleeping in their bean bag chair; challenging to get out of on a good day, let alone the middle of the night.None worked for long. My presence and title of ‘mama’ deemed essential to ensure their nightly slumber, which resulted in none for me; morphing me into a daylight demon. “Mama!” I’d stumble to the hall and wait for the second call to confirm which bedroom to stagger into for fear of unintentionally waking the other. Yasmine huddled in the corner of her bed, eyes large as saucers as she stared at the space between her dresser and bookshelf. “How come she knows my name?” I eyed the vacant space. “Who?”“The girl. She comes every night, Grandma said she’s my angel.”

I was reluctant to give credibility to this new ‘entity’ for fear of validating the existence of gigantic tarantulas, killer walking flowers and the rest of the night creatures I’d previously dispelled. Although none of the others were on a first name basis.Sharing this with my husband brought forth his hopeful reply of “Maybe our house is on an old Indian burial ground.” His eyes lit up imagining living in an Amityville horror house or reenacting poltergeist movie scenes. I didn’t share this optimism. Knowing I lacked the courage to face down evil manifestations and attempts at fleeing would be feeble with my half-hearted exercise regime. Promising a sprint before being overwhelmed by a lack of air, thus sacrificing any lead from trailing apparitions unhindered by human deficiencies. Finally resolving I couldn’t clone myself, I shared myself. Seeking out two stuffed bears from my years gone by, I informed my girls they were armed with the very essence of their mama and could ward off any night malingerers. “No dreams.” Laken whispered into Pretty Bear’s stuffed ear. Her nightly mission assigned. “You don’t want to give up your dreams, honey.” I soothed. “Some may be scary, but without dreams you may never get to fly.”

Mount Miralax

2011-09-20T06:04:00.000-07:00

It was the perfect solution. Two parties in one. Combine the girls’ third birthday party with a housewarming party. I would have gotten away with it too, if it hadn’t been for meddlin’ with the Miralax.Constipation. When I’d tell people how the girls suffered with this from an early age they looked at me as if I were ludicrous. Thinking it a term only an older, bowel obsessed person, would burden them with information of. But I came to fear the word. After trying every method known to man to rid of this irritant I was elated to hear about the newest miracle cure the doctors were promoting…Miralax. By then I would’ve tried any elixir or snake oil a traveling salesperson was selling out of the back of a covered wagon.I came to learn one must become a chemist when messing with Miralax. Measuring out a calculated dose based upon a mother’s ‘gestimation’ of how much might be enough, but not too much based on information mothers never seem to want but always have of the bodily functions of everyone in their family. But that was later…The first week we got the wonder powder, I went full force. Giving the full dose each day and waiting for the miracle. Days passed and I doubted the abilities the doctors had boasted of but then I discovered, at least with my girls, it was cumulative. One day it all just…kicked in. That day happened to be about an hour prior to the big party. I was busy with party preparations when I knew, as mothers do, that something was amiss. Heading up the stairs to my daughters bedrooms I could almost hear horror film narrative, “Don’t go up there!” Of course if it was a horror film I would’ve fallen then as the killer descended upon me, but since it wasn’t, I continued on to face something much worse than Freddy or Jason. Two shrieking just-turned-three year olds running through the hall in a beeline to their bathroom…leaving a trail of something no woman wants to see on her new mint green carpet emitting an odor no one wants in their house at any time, let alone when a gaggle of people are about to descend for a tour of your new residence. I studied the brown splattered carpet. The finger-painted bathroom. The bottoms and bodies of my girls that had previously been primped and primed for their birthday party. The brown well…everything. The elixir had worked…too well. I turned toward the door, certain the first guest was about to descend, entering with a wrinkling of their nose as the smell assaulted them. I did what any woman exhausted from preparing for a huge party would do…I freaked. It was then my mom decided to call to ask if I needed anything. Well, aside from a new house and a cork for my children I was at a loss for other immediate needs. My mother, a veteran of five children, sensing imminent spontaneous combustion of her daughter, swooped in and removed her grandchildren so I could prepare before the masses arrived. So as they say, be careful what you wish for…you might just get it.

Two heads are better than one

2011-09-13T02:38:00.000-07:00

“They’re out!” I bolted upright in bed, jarred awake from intermittent sleep. While seeking precious minutes of slumber, my mind was accustomed to every sound the house made and those of the two that dictated our every hour… the twins. Different noises indicated a need to eat, be changed or just the plain ole’ pay attention to me now! But this sound was nothing like I’d heard before. It was the sound of rummaging around in the nursery. Unless we’d been invaded by garden gnomes that spoke twin-speak… the girls had gotten out of their cribs.
Rushing in, I found Laken gleefully clutching all of the binkies she’d gathered that had been tossed out during the night. I’d learned early on the best method to reduce mama-calls was to strategically place about six binkies throughout each crib. Several were in her mouth and the rest clutched to her chest as she sought more of this glorious treasure. While Yasmine, already a clothes-horse, was tearing clothes out of their dresser. Layering several tops with no regard to coordination, as if a tiny homeless person wearing all of her possessions.
Already almost outnumbered and desperate to maintain our precarious control, my husband, Jamie, and I pondered our next move. The next morning, Jamie heard the tell-tale sounds of a breakout in progress. Creeping over to the cracked nursery door with camcorder in hand, he captured the escape on tape. Laken, already showing signs of fearlessness, was at the head of her crib reaching through the bars to scale onto the changing table separating the two cribs. Hefting herself onto the table, she took a short break to play with the toys kept there for entertaining during changing sessions and then proceeded over to the other side where Yasmine awaited instruction.
Laken began babbling and gesturing to Yasmine as if explaining the method of escape and the spoils that waited. After much words of encouragement, that only those understanding twin-speak could decipher, Yasmine replicated Laken’s actions. Taking a few minutes to celebrate their success, they donned bonnets left there and tossed around a baby wipe or two, and then Laken turned to shimmy down the front of the changing table, using the shelves as a ladder. Plopping onto the floor, she gestured and babbled at Yasmine to do the same, who then followed suit. Both peered around, cooing at their liberation.
Unwilling to grant unsupervised freedom at this young age, and the girls unable to understand enough words to suffer through lectures of hidden threats that awaited in the seemingly innocent nursery, I did the only thing I could… I moved the changing table.
For some liberties, though sweet, are meant to be waited for. Now… if only I could use the same method of entrapment in their coming teen years.

'Where's the Beef?!'

2011-09-06T02:00:00.000-07:00

“Mama, I miss Beef.” Yasmine wasn’t referring to a now vegetarian status, but rather the hamster, Beef-cake, otherwise known as Beef, who’d died last year. Even I’d become fond of her despite my anti-hamster status. Beef was acquired as a gift from a ‘friend’ who was trying to reduce their pet rodents.
“You can’t beat that deal.” My husband gestured to the free cage and food that came along with the new addition to our family. I actually felt there were better deals that could beat this but was outvoted three to one. It would have been four to one if Bummy had been given the opportunity to vote, for he loved any critter smaller than him.
Beef didn’t share the love. Bummy would press his face against her cage and she’d retreat into the tube and hang in limbo until he left. One day the girls decided to introduce them, placing the minuscule fur ball in front of the lhasa-saurus. Once I’d realized the thing frozen in fear was not one of Bummy’s toys, I tried to rescue her but Bummy snatched her up in his mouth first. A stump of a tail hung out one end, a furry face out the other, two girls sporting the ‘home alone’ scream and an oblivious husband on the computer completed the scene. After much prying of Bummy’s jaws Beef tumbled onto the floor, miraculously unscathed.
Beef turned out to be a pretty good hamster. Despite the torturous..err…fun games they played with her she never retaliated. Like when they made her an amusement park. I’m certain if a hamster could scream I would’ve heard it as her little claws clutched for traction while being forced down the cardboard slide.
But I knew Beef must’ve been happy with us. Or just very stupid. She’d escaped multiple times due to the girls inability to remember to latch the door. But we never had to play much ‘Where’s the Beef’ because she’d go to the same hiding places and make a ruckus interior decorating her new home. The crayon pieces, cotton balls and odds and ends made it seem as if we’d invaded the home of one of The Borrowers. She’d be so engrossed in her task that she’d display the most startled expression a hamster could muster once she realized the jig was up.

The girls gave Beef a beautiful send off as they made her tiny tomb stone and said her eulogy, certain to point out all of Beef’s good qualities and neglecting to mention the habit she had of sleeping in her own defecation.
That’s the delightful thing about memories; often the good ones tend to burn brightest while the bad start to fade as they’re replaced by the wonders of each day.

Seeing Double

2011-08-30T06:38:00.000-07:00

“Do you know what it means to be a twin?” I asked my four year old cherubs. They’d never met other twins and had never questioned why ‘share’ was the first word they learned over ‘mine’. I’d thought they’d had some inclination as neither could identify themselves in portraits instead asking, “Which one is me?” Taking for granted that only one of them had to try on an outfit at the store, knowing if it fit one it would fit the other. At times this brought on a brief spat as to who had to be the model, though luckily despite being a mirror image of each other, their personalities had much variation and one was more the fashionista and more accommodating.
I expected them to reply that someone looked just like them or they shared a birthday but Yasmine replied with a nod, “One of us was in your belly and one of us was in Daddy’s belly.” After tempering down the vision of my husband toting huge swollen ankles while holding an aching back from a protruding belly, I informed my girls that neither one of them had taken up residence in their father’s belly for those 35 weeks. I was taking all of the credit for that.
Furrowed brows and thoughtful expressions forewarned me that detailed questions about the birthing process were about to follow since I’d shattered this perception. I thought of deterring the subject to something safer, perhaps identical baby dolls as Jeremy at daycare had clarified the mystery of the matching girls with two baby dolls of the same making declaring ‘this is Yasmine and this is Laken’.
“I know why Yasmine is older than me,” Laken declared. Now twelve minutes might not seem like much, but if it’s all you got to gain reign as the big sister you’re going to hold onto that title with all of your might. Again I waited with baited breath and thought furiously how to avoid the demands for details about how they came out of my belly button. (A lie, of course, but they were four, neither I, nor they were ready for the real story.) Once again, I was saved. “Because I wasn’t ready to get up, I was still sleeping, “ Laken said with certainty as it was a known fact that Yasmine was a terrible sleeper.
Perception is reality and my four year olds were quite content with their definition of twins. In fact neither of them seemed to think much of it. They just accepted it, which was a surprise for two girls who never tired of the word, ‘why?’ So I summed it up the best that I could, “It means you’ll always have a best friend.”

The Trouble with Twins...

2011-08-23T19:52:00.000-07:00

“I am going to cook this.” My four year old daughter held the egg between two fingers about two inches from my husband’s now awake face as she announced her master plan. For we knew, this was no threat, she meant what she said.
The trouble with twins was that what one didn’t think of the other did. No one told us this when we boggled in surprise at the two heads visible in the five month sonogram. Instead most responded with, “what a blessing, they will always have a friend.” Although a few of our friends bursting into laughter should have given us some warning.
What we discovered was that over the first five years, that so-called friend was not that recognizable to the other, more of a teething object, adversary or punching bag that stood in the way of the attention that should rightly be theirs. Once they started daycare I lived in fear that child care services would show up to measure the size of my jaw and as to whether it matched the teething marks on one or the other. I can recall a Christmas card having one of the girls sporting a lovely bite mark on her cheek.
Two strong-minded fiercely independent gals forced my husband and I to develop the ability to carry on the charade as if living normal days with only a few hours of sleep while living in a home that was stripped of all objects that could be broken, eaten or utilized as a weapon for the first three years of their lives as we refused to admit defeat even though outnumbered by the munchkins. With the ability to climb like a monkey onto countertops and to the top of any medicine cabinet, no fear held them back with their personal, miniature matching cheerleader encouraging them on to find what must be a treasure if we have attempted to keep them from it.
Our babies will be ten years old this weekend. “Double digits” for double-trouble, each birthday a quiet, personal celebration that we have survived another year as parents to the mystery that is twins. They have become more friend than foe now and many things are quite endearing to see as I look on as their mother, but still an outsider to the mysteries of twin-dom.
We remain one step behind them as their melded minds play us to their will. But we will never reveal this to them…never letting them see us sweat. For though there is double trouble with twins, there is also double to love.

The name game...

2011-08-15T05:35:00.000-07:00

“I don’t like my name. You can call me Anna from now on.” My daughter Laken announced when she was about five. “Why? You have a beautiful name.” I thought so, since we’d chosen both of our daughter’s names with care. Being identical twins, we wanted them to have something unique to represent their individuality. Granted there was the whole ‘Sissy fiasco’ when both were called Sissy so much due to our families difficulty in telling them apart that they started daycare each believing that their real name was Sissy, really confusing their teacher… but that’s another story.
But I could understand. When I was little I didn’t like my name. No one could pronounce it or spell it right; I used to wish my name was Lisa. I knew if I’d only been named Lisa, like four of the popular girls in class, things would have been different for me.

Lisas

Me

It wasn’t until I started high school that I began to appreciate my name. Now my name would seem mundane compared to the wide flux of names today. The majority difficult to pronounce and impossible to spell but all proclaiming the originality of the person they represent.
Because names are important. Most think of a particular name and an image develops in your mind. That’s why I have an impossible time choosing names for my characters. Some writers choose names based on their meaning, their heritage. Me, I choose a character name based on what image comes up in my mind when I think of that name. Think of the Twilight characters, what if Bella and Edward would have been Bertha and Eugene?

Since the ‘Anna Phase’ only lasted about a week, I think my daughter has accepted her name and even though many still spell my name wrong I love it and wouldn’t change it.
What about you? Do you love your name or would you share what you would’ve like to have been named or what‘character name’ would represent you?

Confessions of a Blistex-aholic

2011-08-09T02:41:00.000-07:00

My name is Maureen and I’m a Blistex-aholic. My addiction began in Junior High. I remember my first giant tube of pink bubble-gum flavor lip gloss (actually it’s more like lip wax). Its ghostly outline permanently deforming the tight fitted fabric. The circumference of a small flashlight protruded from the back pocket of my Jordace jeans while a pink wide-tooth, long-handled comb peeked out from my other pocket. Sitting was often challenging or resulting in the ejection, and possible loss, of the tube. Perhaps that’s what led me to obtain spares and stash them so I’d never be without. Then I moved onto the other stuff, Chapstick. Packaged in smaller containers. Easier to conceal, while giving more pack to your punch. No longer needing the false sweet flavors infused into the gel.
But, alas, even that began to fail me as I became immune to its abilities to refresh my barren lips. That’s when I moved onto the hard stuff. I’ve never been able to leave it, ahh Blistex.
I can’t be without it. Just the thought leaves me longing for a swipe of its cool, refreshing-ness across my lips. I’m not ready to quit, it’s part of who I am. I envision people recalling me as “you know the one, the one that always has the Blistex?” Granted I’m hoping it’s not the only thing I’m remembered by as I picture mourners showering me with tubes of Blistex instead of flowers.
It’s kind of one of my character traits. What would Harry Potter be without his trademark glasses? Sherlock Holmes without Watson? Popeye without his spinach? These little things make a character real to the reader, endearing them to their heart. Because we are all unique in our own way.
So…are you brave enough to share your addiction?

My Big Bad Dad is afraid of a Spider...

2011-08-03T17:50:00.000-07:00

“Don’t go in that there garden shed.” My dad leaned in toward my daughters to emphasize his sincerity as he delivered this ominous warning.

I nodded. “Yes, Pappy’s gardening tools are in there.” I pictured various blades and other sharp objects that could easily inflict some type of physical injury onto two curious nine year old girls.

“No! Because there’s a spider that lives there that’s as big as my fist.” Dad held up his meaty paw to demonstrate the enormity of this spider. “Big as a mouse…and as fast!”

I started to chuckle envisioning my huge dad creeping into the shed but being forced to abandon his desired garden tool once spotted and pursed by what most Harry Potter fans would consider Aragog. But one glimpse of my dad’s emphatic expression and discrete glances toward the shed in question, as if the multi-legged beast would hear him discussing him and tear across the yard to seek revenge, and I knew he was serious.

I suppose many have fears that may seem irrational to another but inflict sheer terror onto the tormented. A friend of mine confided in being terrified of banks, for fear of a robbery occurring while she was there. She would only use the drive through. Even safe in her very own get-away car, she still found that traumatic.

I tried to think of what my irrational fear would be. After much time pondering the question I realized it probably wouldn’t seem irrational to me. Heights? Claustrophobia? Sure either could result in some kind of injury or maiming if something went amiss, but I would guess a ventriloquist doll really wouldn’t come to life and pursue me.

Well, probably not… I’m pretty certain that’s the intent behind those painted on creepy eyes.

What’s keeping you from achieving your goal?

My dog wears diapers

2011-07-26T05:00:00.000-07:00

“They’re for my dog, really.” I wanted to blurt out as I held the giant bag of Poise bladder pads that was impossible to conceal amongst any amount of groceries. Although the worst trips were ones that I had to run to the store just for that. As if some sort of bladder emergency had come over me. But I doubted anyone would believe me, the blame the dog alibi like the age old the-dog-ate-my-homework story, though in this case it was true. I was sure everyone would think it was like when someone starts with the “I have this friend who has this problem…” and you know right away that there is no friend. They’d raise a brow and look at me like, sure those are for your dog. Right.

But apparently these are the things you do for love. Endure embarrassment to care for the ones you love. I knew my husband loved me when he agreed to pick up Tampax in the store. Even after the time they had to stop his checkout of a cartful of stuff for an overhead price check on them.

I know he loves the dog as well, for he’s also agreed to pick up the pads and even took out the time to seek out the largest and most absorbent. I must admit on my first trip it was to grab the first one I saw and flee.

When we got the loveable little puppy over 13 years ago I’d have never thought one day I would be buying him diapers. Heck I didn’t even know dog diapers, excuse me, I mean ‘male garment wraps’ existed for dogs until the last few months. Plus giving the geriatric geezer pills for his arthritis and drops for his dry eyes has him right up in competition with other oldsters in competing for the most ailments.

Love is like that.

So what would you do for love?

Why Bruce Lee must wear tighty-whities...

2011-07-12T11:48:00.000-07:00

Since I started taking taekwondo I began obsessing about my underwear.

No, this wasn’t what I thought would be my concern as I entered a room full of varied colorful belts while mine was still stiff and lackluster with no stripes or color. But I’d decided long ago that white pants would never be for me, besides them being terribly unflattering and having to worry just where you sit down (ask my sister about the caterpillar she sat on once- not a flattering image to wear on your rear) you’re virtually walking around displaying your gutchies through the fabric.

Because you can’t tell me if you see someone coming at you with a black belt, looking all Bruce Lee-like and you notice their leopard or SpongeBob underpants peeking out through the fabric, you’re gonna lose some of that intimation you’d initially felt. Sure, they may still kick your butt, but at least you’ll be laughing as you go down. That saying about picturing everyone in their underwear to relax during public speaking had it right.

So here I am, still wearing my white, stripe-less belt. Initially I blamed my lack of progress on many things, but finally I realized, when my first thought on taekwondo day has to be “am I wearing the right underwear”, it’s no wonder I have yet to memorize the form. But like Mom always taught me, I may be in an unflattering, high-waisted pair of white britches, I may never earn past my white belt, but if I’m in a car wreck on the way to or from class I know I will have on clean…beige…underwear.

I'm Back....

2011-06-27T16:45:00.000-07:00

After a long hiatus, I'm back and I'll be blogging. Stay tuned for more details about some new directions I'd like to take on my blog and to provide me with some input on what you like in a blog.
Thanks for waiting for me!

Maureen

Why I Iove to flash!

2010-03-07T08:14:00.001-08:00

Now that I have your attention.... not THAT kind of flashing :)

I'm talking about Flash Fiction, of course. Other names for it include microfiction, micro-story, postcard fiction, prosetry and short short story. Though there is there is no widely, accepted definition of the length of the category, it can range from 300 to 1,000 words.

Now, if you've never tried to write a story, this may seem like the easy way out by doing the 'quick and dirty' while actually the challenge of the flash fiction story is getting an actual story, a beginning, a middle and an end. Deliver a message, or have some change occur. All the while you are producing a setting and introducing a character...in about 500 words, give or take.

Hence you pound out the story, then go back and cut, cut and cut every unnessesary word. You don't have to be a writer to try this challenge, think about it as you go about your day every time you have something to say. Can you get your point across while keeping your audience interested in what you have to say?

If you want to see my 255 word story, "The Mirror Never Lies" stop over at the

Long Story Short ezine:

http://www.alongstoryshort.net/themirrorneverlies.html

Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies...

2010-01-24T16:22:00.000-08:00

“What does God look like?”
I open one eye a crack and though the room remained dark, as the sun hadn’t decided to welcome the new day, my inquisitive eight year old has.
I should’ve seen this coming, as we’d tried to warn our twins that Bummy, our twelve year old Lhasa Apso, has a failing tumor-filled bladder and may become quite ill soon. Though this light warning I tried to imply backfired when my husband decided to provide more information. Never a good idea.
“When Bummy gets really sick we’ll take him to the vet and they’ll euthanize him and he’ll go to sleep.” My husband said.
“You mean they’ll kill him.” One twin replied with utmost certainty and a narrowed look, revealing she knew we were in cahoots with the vet to murder our beloved pet.
“I said, he’ll go to sleep.” My husband repeated, as if using the old ‘because-I-said-so-technique’ would fly anymore and erase any thoughts of their parents being cold-blooded murders.
“You mean they’ll kill him.” She replied again, slowly and more firmly as her barely four foot height refused to defer to my husbands over six-foot height.
Seeing this stand-off of wills on a subject that was already immensely distressing to me, I deflected the situation by blurting out how incredibly healthy Bummy really was and there was no immediate threat to his health. Sure, the cowards way out. But to prevent being outwitted, outplayed and actually surviving this parenthood game, it was sometimes necessary to turn tail and run.
Thus when I saw one of my eight-year old creeping around the end of our bed where Bummy slumbers, I knew what she was up to. Checking he was still alive.

“When I see him in my head he’s always wearing a blue t-shirt.”
I realized feigning sleep hadn’t deterred the subject that was too weighty for my un-caffeinated brain. She wanted confirmation of her description of what God really looks like.
“He’s built kind of big, like our neighbor, but his hair is different.” She gestured to her own hair. “He combs it over to the side.” She nodded to herself, satisfied. “But he always wears a blue t-shirt, always.”
Now too amused to be able to fall back asleep, but unwilling to play the ‘answer this impossible question game’ after a similar game yesterday about puberty. Once the girls heard the word that encompassed the entourage of questions they’d begun asking about sex and body hair they dubbed it as their new favorite word. Adding it to their recent collection of unusual silly words, such as pendulum and expectations. Throwing them out randomly in sentences or just uttering one of the words then dissolving into giggles.
Fearing another long drawn out inquiry similar to the ‘puberty inquisition’ yesterday, I remained silent.
My efforts were fruitless as large, brown questioning eyes moved within millimeters of my face. Once she called me on playing possum she began shooting the questions, rapid-fire. Mixing in varied religions and magical beliefs to try and satisfy herself on Bummy’s potential future and if he would be hanging out with the ‘blue-t-shirt-wearing-God’.
For though different, I’ve come to realize the challenges didn’t end at age three when my older and wiser sister told me her secret. “You use wine to handle that whining.”
But I did think that 6:30 a.m. it may be too early to start.
Though that may change by the time the girls hit puberty.

Happy Holidays

2009-12-19T07:39:00.001-08:00

I hope that everyone has a wonderful, peaceful holiday season.

Maureen

Presenteeism- just what the heck is it?

2009-11-19T17:36:00.000-08:00

If you're wondering just what Presenteeism is, or even if your only goal is that you like Starbucks and want a chance to win a five dollar gift certificate and a copy of THAT MAGIC MOMENT, then stop by and visit me at
Anna Kathryn's blog on Monday, November 23rd

http://annakathrynlanier.blogspot.com/

To your good health! :)

Maureen

In sickness and in health...

2009-11-19T17:23:00.000-08:00

As cold and flu season approaches I wanted to share an essay I did a few years ago to dedicate to all those who've dealt with sick children..

Everyone knows when Yasmine is going to throw up. A shrill scream alerts all of the impending vomiting session. Generally these sessions are reserved for the midnight hours, perhaps to ensure the rapt attention of all in the home, as well as the surrounding counties.
I find myself abruptly ripped from intermittent sleep and unexplainably propelled to a standing position. Disoriented and confused, I begin darting around trying to determine if I need to chose a weapon, fire extinguisher or evacuate the house from imminent danger.
The threat is identified for me with a follow-up shriek, “I DON’T WANT TO THOW UP!!”
In some instances, this declarement could be considered welcome, for if my other daughter would have used this warning mechanism just last month I could’ve had an opportunity to get out of the line of fire when I found myself unexpectedly bathed in regurgitation.
With the impending threat determined, my husband sighs, rolls over and attempts to return to slumber, while I attend to my motherly duties.
I follow the echoes of earsplitting howling to find Yasmine perched on the bathroom stool by the sink observing her mirror image while shrilling screaming.
Granted, I could easily relate to the horror of being confronted by the mirror after being aroused from sleep but have, to this date, been able to refrain myself from screaming at the image. Although since I am entering ‘day three’ of this tour of duty, I attempt to avert my eyes from being accosted by my own dawn-of-the-dead reflection to prevent nightmares when I return to slumber.
Immediately, I attempt to dislodge her grip from the sink to place her in the approved-vomiting-position; in front of the toilet. My attempts are futile and she begins to gag and spit into the sink so I resign myself to additional clean-up duties.
Tears streaming, still screaming, bright pink partially digested Tylenol spews into the sink and dribbles down her chin. In between hurls, she continues to peek at the mirror, either to confirm that she does indeed appear the picture of unwell in this dramatic role or if ensuring that her tonsils are still where she left them.
The pandemonium wakes her twin sister (and the rest of the neighborhood) who immediately becomes distressed in realizing that her reign has ended as being the ‘sickly one’. For as a twin, competing for every ounce of extra motherly attention since conception, being sick can have its advantages.
Laken joins in the mayhem by yelling to me to avert my attention, “I’m still sick! I’m still sick!” ending in a wail as she collapses back to the bed, too exhausted to fight for her time in power at this ungodly hour.
The drama queen has finished her purging session and I escort her back to her bed all the while attempting to quiet her intermittent howling and sniveling.
As a trained nurse, I pull out my vomiting treatment supplies; a wet washcloth and a piece-of-junk-unreliable-digital ear thermometer to soothe the ailing beast that is my daughter. After dabbing and blotting with the cool cloth I’m ready to play the ‘gestimate’ temperature game.
Laken knows this game all too well due to her recent ailment experience and still feels the impression of the gauge in her ear after approximately one-hundred temperature taking sessions, burrows under her comforter to avoid further violations of her ear canal.
“I need to take your temperature”, I announce to Yasmine, then proceed to repeatedly poke, listen for the beep, shuffle to the tiny nightlight and attempt to read the teeny square three times and determine an average of what the temperature may be.
With sleep wanting, and the hour undeterminable I proficiently complete these complex mental calculations and pronounce, “Your temperature is up”.
With her diagnosis confirmed, I administer the most effective children’s medication available to mankind at this time~ the mother’s kiss on the forehead that cures all ailments.
I then instruct her, “Try to go back to sleep”, and shuffle back to my quarters to collapse for a short interval until the alarm sounds again.

2009-11-01T10:51:00.000-08:00

Let the insanity begin!!
I decided to dive in and instead of edit an old manuscript I have, start/finish a new fresh 50,000 word document by the end of November.
I'm only telling you all this so I don't change my mind because... it's a scary commitment!

My husband's true love...

2009-10-25T08:42:00.000-07:00

My husband is having an affair. It started months ago, as the weather got warmer. The changes were subtle at first. The way his gaze drifted away as I talked. I knew who he was thinking of, her. How he’d look longingly toward the garage, as if awaiting an opportunity to escape. He’d be gone for hours and return with his hair disheveled and a satisfied smile on his face. I’d see him with her. They way he’d caress her, I’d have to turn away. He’d wrap his legs around her and she’d purr at his touch.
He adorned her with ornaments. Then proudly showed her off to all of his friends. He met other like-minded men with a similar obsession. The love he displayed, made it more than a possession. She dominated his waking thoughts, and I suspect, filled his dreams. How could I compete with such a force, that provided more than it seemed? Freedom, restoration of youth and endless adventure.
The season changed. He slipped away less and less. Their love couldn’t withstand such climatic ranges. My husband was back. To have and to hold. I thought he was mine to keep, at least while it was cold. She was out of the picture, at least until spring.

I've posted her picture below, if you'd like to see her...

P.S.

Check out my friend Anna Kathryn's Blog this Wednesday, October 26th~...
If you're wacky for cake :) http://annakathrynlanier.blogspot.com

Here she is...the other woman

2009-10-25T08:40:00.000-07:00

Check out a review for That Magic Moment

2009-10-13T15:21:00.000-07:00

I got their highest rating! It made my day :)

http://yougottareadreviews.blogspot.com/2009/10/review-that-magic-moment-by-maureen-l.html

No tricks, just treats!!

2009-10-10T13:36:00.000-07:00

Stop by on Monday, October 12th at my friend Emma Lai's blog where I'm the guest blogger.
http://emmalaiwrites.blogspot.com

Read about my most memorable Halloween costume, a little bit of history on how wearing Halloween costumes came to be, oh and for a possible treat!
Leave a comment and you have the chance to win an ecopy of my rosette, That Magic Moment and a five dollar Starbucks gift certificate.
(Because I have to get up pretty darn early to write and couldn't do it without the help of some caffeine.)

2009-09-22T08:41:00.000-07:00

see more dog and puppy pictures

A taste of "That Magic Moment"

2009-09-06T10:00:00.000-07:00

It's not the same for everyone but it's there. The moment that you know something has changed significantly in your life. When your world tilts on it's axis and nothing will ever be the same.
My Rosette is only a few weeks away from release. Here's a little bit to tell you what it's about.
But what is YOUR magic moment? Was it when you accomplished a course/degree? The birth of your children? Meeting your love? A new career? In each person's lives there are many... feel free to share one significant to you.
~ Maureen

~"Can love cross the boundaries mortals have erected to reject all that cannot be explained? As the last witch in the Turner line, Celeste doesn’t know if she’s finally found true love or if her grandma cast a love spell to continue the Turner line. Dane Johns is a man not easily forgotten, but that’s exactly what Celeste plans to do. Because he has one big flaw. He’s a mortal.Dane Johns doesn’t know it but he’s under a spell, and Celeste Turner is the cure. Mysteriously healing his injury while captivating his heart, Dane is enchanted. Although once he discovers Celeste’s secret he must decide if he’s charmed enough to not only accept love into his life, but the world of magic."~

Deep Thoughts

2009-08-28T03:12:00.000-07:00

"A Lofty idea must be had, not of what one is doing, but of what one may someday do. Otherwise there is no point in working on."-- Edgar Hilaire Germain Degas (at age 70)

~Happy Birthday to my 8 year-old twins today! This quote inspires me to think of all that they may accomplish in thier lifetime as well as the dreams I still persue-

Warning~ Children's birthday parties ahead!

2009-08-23T11:35:00.000-07:00

You attended the parenting classes, read all the books and think that you have heard it all about raising your bundle of joy, well think again. This advice will not be found in any book or parenting class. It is the ‘b’ word that no parent will talk to you honestly about. No, it is not bibs, bottles or breastfeeding. It is…birthdays.
In your parenting lifetime you will spend thousands of dollars on these things, from birthday parties you are throwing to ones you are forced to be going. Invitations arrive looking so cute and harmless with colorful balloons or a cuddly critter adorning it, but do not be fooled; harmless they are not.
Receiving such initially obligates you to go to the store and spend a mind-boggling amount of time trying to pick out a ‘unique gift’ for a child that will receive a multitude on this day and probably barely give yours a second glance.
Warning: bringing the birthday attendee with you to the store causes the cost of shopping for the gift to double, for it is felt that the attendee must already have or obtain the same gift.
Then there is your time obligation. For years, upon years the parties are not just for the youngsters. You, as the responsible parent, are obligated to attend as well and manage your sugar-infested-maniac that was a calm normal child prior to arrival. Then if you are (un)lucky the party is held at some festive place like a roller skating rink or a bowling alley which thus requires 120% supervision as hordes of small children are either throwing around 20+ lb weapons or are smashing into each other and everything else while attempting to learn to ambulate with wheels.
Warning: the best time for your munchkin to learn these new techniques is not necessarily when infused with soda, cake and candy and surrounded by a gaggle of children all in the same predicament.
Next comes the day of the actual festivities. Be it your party, or others, often you are faced with the piñata crisis. There is no actual means to avoid this, for initially it seems like a lovely idea, (as lovely as an idea can be of a bunch of kids swinging around a bat (weapon) while blindfolded to be rewarded with more, and then more, candy) that is until the piñata breaks. Then the child instinct kicks in which is ‘hoard or hurt’.
Warning: this is defined as attempting to obtain every last morsel of candy, despite the fact that they may not like that candy at all or have vats of it at home, and then try to injure every other child that is trying to do likewise. I believe the results of this may have spawned the idea of the WWF.
Let’s talk treat bags. Either you are obtaining these vile things which pretty much cost you an arm and a leg and result in looking like a bag of junk or you are on the receiving end. If you are unfortunate and you encounter a like-wise birthday-passive-aggressive parent who fills this treat bag with all of the items that you have been trying to keep out of your household since the birth of your bundle of joy.
Warning: such items include play dough, paints, whistles, squirt guns etc. (most youths do not understand the boundaries of when and where squirt guns can be used and appropriate body areas to squirt).
So you think, “well I will never have such parties for my child” but listen now as I tell you that you will, if only for revenge for all those that you had to attend or to recoup some of the monies you have invested in gifts. You will also want to recycle some of the mass quantities of piñata candy acquired over the year and ‘pay-them-back’ with their own torturous shopping trip as they try to acquire ‘the gift’.
Then there is the parent guilt factor which your child will learn to manipulate at a very young age. The day after your child’s birthday party they will immediately begin planning for next year’s party. You will hear about it the entire year long from where it will be, what will be done, what gifts will be obtained and who they will invite.
Warning: your child will firmly believe that you must invite every single being that they have ever met in their lifetime and will ask you so in public in front of those not invited as to your reason for excluding them from the annual event.
You will find yourself unable to crush their tiny dreams and little heart and tell them that they cannot have thus party; especially since EVERY one of their friends seems to have had one all year and…how can such small children have so many friends anyway?
The cumulative effect of having to host multiple parties and attend bazillions of them begins to wear upon your brain, causing you to start to twitch slightly at just the mention of the ‘b’ word or upon receiving any small invitation envelope in the mail. You try to remember other children’s birthdays and attempt to fill those times with other activities just to avoid having to attend parties. Then one day when you receive the one-billionth invitation to a child’s birthday party, it happens. You simply snap and lose your mind.
As you sit there with your sweet, innocent little child I am sure you think that this is unlikely, but trust me, as a seven-year veteran of children’s birthday parties, I know. So do not say you were not warned.

I got my cover art!!

2009-01-23T14:52:00.001-08:00

I'm so excited that I got my cover art for my rosette, That Magic Moment. It is anticipated to be released in October by the Wild Rose Press. Tell me what you think. I love it!

Winter is my excuse...

2009-01-18T11:11:00.000-08:00

Although I am not one to revel in the cold weather (in fact I am feverishly counting the days until Spring as we speak), I have found that winter can be good for some things.

Such as an excuse for:

Hodge-podge parking (otherwise known as make your own parking space when you can't see the lines, as close to the building as possible is encouraged)

Glowing white skin is accepted; no more dealing with pesky, stinky and sometimes orage self-tanners!

Laziness--what else is there to do when it's so cold outside?

Weight-gain; who can tell with the layers and layers of clothing, besides it seems like light years until warm weather anyway...worry about it then.

Drinking mass quantities of coffee, tea and other hot beverages--gotta warm up inside, right? No one notices the caffeine jitters, they think you're just cold.

Saving money-- who needs to buy so many razor blades to shave?

What's your 'blame it on the winter' excuse?

What's a blog?

2009-01-18T10:31:00.000-08:00

I have a confession to make. Up until about, well maybe a year ago, I didn't even know what a blog was. Sure I'd heard the word tossed around before but I didn't want to ask what it was for fear others would realize my illiteracy of ever expanding technology.

Then I thought I'd never need such a thing, for what would I have to blog about? But now I DO have something. My first published story! I have a rosette entitled "That Magic Moment" that will be coming out from The Wild Rose Press, and I'll tell you it was a magic moment for me to have it accepted.

Writing has been part of my life, in some form or another, for as long as I can remember. I'd only begun to take it seriously a few years back and began to learn more about the craft and business of writing, and boy is there a lot to learn!

I think by know I have some idea of both (craft and business :) ) and am eager to share my journey with you.