Tales from #sydandsash #twinlyfe
Monster Terrors
From the Book of: Trials and Tribulations of Managing Twins Solo
Part VI, Chapter 09
September 23, 2022
Sasha is a special child. And by special, I mean she is an emotionally hijacked monster. I sometimes wonder if she needs an exorcism. Her behavior is that concerning. At almost 7 years old, I expected that growth and maturity would aid in smoothing the edges of the behavioral roller coaster she pilots on a daily basis.
I admittedly have PTSD from years of her drama around sleep and an inability to control her mega super sized feelings and kid fears. Sasha was such a joyful and easy baby. Full of love, cuddles and giggles, I remember thinking at least I got one easy child. Hah! That God, she has been laughing at me for years.
To me, Sasha is otherworldly. I knew it while she was growing in my womb. I gave her the name Sasha because it means defender of mankind. Her Hebrew name, Ahava, means love. She is an old soul. One who is observant and thoughtful and who has an innate sensibility to continuously do the right thing. Sasha has a big, wild and creative imagination and writes her own story books. She also leaves me love notes at my desk, by my bed and in my bathroom. Anywhere I can find them. She is my love ninja. In some ways, she has been a dream child.
However, there is a Jeckyl and Hyde dysfunction to her as well. In some areas, her emotional intelligence is mature for her age, but in other areas, her fears and anxieties have hijacked her ability to reason and a monster invades her sweet little body taking over in a way that she cannot regain control.
In her twos, the night terrors began. While a child with night terrors is unaware of these occurrences, the night terrors significantly disrupt the sleep pattern if repetitive. A child lacking proper sleep is going to develop imbalances in their behavior and personality. Coupled with these night terrors and nighttime head banging, it became increasingly obvious that Sasha had difficulty breathing. A sleep study determined she had severe obstructive sleep apnea. Her tonsils were the size of golf balls and needed to be removed.
I incorrectly presumed that once I resolved the problem, the night terrors would dissipate. By age four, they increased in frequency and during the time of corona, night time anxieties ratcheted up and kid fears kicked in and Sasha became a Cat 5 hurricane of unmanageable emotions.
By age six, the night terrors ceased to exist. Poof. Gone. All those years of middle of the night unconscious awakenings and incessant screaming and crying and then one day, they just disappeared. I breathed a sigh of relief and almost got too comfortable in believing that all of Sasha’s sleep issues were a thing of the past. And that God, she continued laughing at me.
Soon after the night terrors stopped, normal kid fears leapt in to take their place. Invisible monsters, attachment to mommy and “I am scared” of literally everything both during the day and at night are now common daily problems to solve.
My baby is increasingly exhibiting difficulties with change. If we go out of town, it takes her days to adjust and she creates havoc and turmoil for the entire family. It took her 3 weeks to adjust to first grade. She started a new dance class and refused to get out of the car and would not take the class. In her exhaustion from not being able to settle at night, she can wake up in a horrible moody cow mood that turns my sweet child into quite the asshole. And those unconscious night terrors have turned into daytime tantrums that last for an hour over the most mundane of things.
For example, “I am hungry.”
“Yes, my love, what would you like to eat?” I ask
“I don’t know.” She replies.
I offer her the entire house menu in a French accent and she says no to everything. At which point, I tell her she must decide because I am walking away now. Her temper rises and she starts crying and then she continues crying that she is hungry. On repeat. I know she is no longer in her body. And nothing I say is going to bring her back. So I leave. She screams and cries like that for an hour until her repetitive cries of “come back, I’m hungry” somehow soothe her to calm. It is quite painful to witness.
I am in unchartered territory and out of my depth for how to parent Sasha through these times. I am not a worrier by nature. All things change. That has been my mantra since the twins were born. It has aided in my survival as a single mother.
For the last three years, there are some nights where I cannot get her to sleep and 2 hours later, I am still sitting by her bedside pleading, bargaining and using every tool at my yogi disposal to try and help soothe her to slumber. I taught her to meditate. I taught her how to use the power of her breath. I kept teaching her yoga poses to calm her nervous system. I gave her Ayurvedic oil massages. I sang mantras to her. I energetically tried to pull those monsters out of her. I have used music and bed time stories for children and some nights, they work, but most nights they don’t. I taught her to draw pictures in a feeling book to help with her worries.
I have been patient and impatient. I have been calm, I have yelled. I have cried and wanted to throw things. I have been exasperated and lost hope. I have been exhausted and emotionally drained. I have wanted to drink copious amounts of alcohol to numb the pain of hopelessness. I have wanted to run away and not come back. It is excruciating not being able to solve these growing pains for my child. I wonder if she will be plagued with mental health issues if she can’t learn how to regulate her emotions. I don’t want to bring those things out into the open for fear that they will become real. Sasha has started seeing a new play therapist and I am cautiously optimistic that this will help set her on the right path and give her better tools to manage all of these feelings she doesn’t want to talk about.
The Gift of Losing
From the Book of: Trials and Tribulations of Managing Twins Solo
Part V, Chapter 10
August 29, 2021
Is losing a gift? If you lose, does it make you a failure? Why are we embarrassed to fail? If we give up and quit after we have lost, is that the real failure? Or is losing just an opportunity for growth and evolution?
Sydney had her second jiu-jitsu tournament today. Her sensei believes that she is focused, has discipline, is mature for her age and needs to be challenged. He placed her in a bracket with a tough gang of kids from another studio. They were fierce, strong and pretty bad ass. The boy in the first match ate her for a breakfast snack. Syd put up a good defense, but just could not stay on top or break free of him. He was like a rat chasing cheese and the cheese was my daughter.
Sydney lost her shit at the end of the match. Her face swelled like a tomato, partially from the heat and force of her match and partly from losing her composure. Syd’s friends and the owner of the studio were quick to take care of her emotional needs while I sat on the sidelines with the awareness of gut wrenching twisting on my insides, knowing my baby was in pain, but also in growth from losing. I couldn’t see her behind the table, but I could feel her. And I knew that she needed to have this experience.
Her second match came later with another boy from the other studio. I wondered if her spirit had been dampened by the first loss or was she determined and ready to kick some ass. Her inexperience at life hasn’t yet taught her the desire to beat down the competition. There is no ego at this age. She is competitive and likes to win, but she is timid and mildly reserved in a way that surprises me given her outgoing and tenacious personality.
This boy in the second match was exceptionally strong and used techniques that seemed beyond what Sydney has learned thus far. Again, she put up an admirable fight and the kids were tied in points, forcing them into overtime. But, he still sacked her. And this time, the crying and busted lip were inconsolable. Believing she still had one more match, Syd told me she was through for today. She did not want to match anymore.
Her sensei came to her and told her what an impressive match she had and how tough this bracket was. He seemed fearful that she might give up and quit and he said as much.
While I attempted to calm Sydney down, Sasha tapped me on the shoulder and said “mom, if Sydney doesn’t want to finish the tournament, maybe I should put on her uniform and go finish for her. Should I do that for Sydney?” My heart swelled with so much love in that moment that Sasha was willing to stand in for her sister. I hope that kind of love always remains between them. While the offer was a beautiful and innocent gesture, it was also unnecessary. It was the end of the tournament and Syd had no matches left.
Sydney needed to lose. She needed to be knocked down and know the sensation of loss in her body, heart and mind. Losing will build character, strength and resiliency and teach her about humility. She can’t understand any of those words just yet, but she can comprehend the feelings of them.
I needed to know if she would have the courage to continue with the practice of Jiu-Jitsu. So later, after she had time to process, I asked her how she felt about losing today. She looked me right in the eye and said, “mom, you know how I feel about losing. I don’t like it.” I then followed up with whether she wanted to quit Jiu-Jitsu or she wanted to keep learning. She told me she loved it and wanted more. That’s my girl, I thought to myself. Sensei Derek will be pleased. And her consolation prize for today was a knockout of her second tooth. A small feat that felt like an actual win for the day.
“Sometimes failing spectacularly is the best evidence that we are alive, human and serious about aspiring to the extraordinary.”~ Shane Rodgers
First Tooth and a Hot Tamale
August 16, 2021
First tooth. Lots of excitement around here.
Tia gave Sydney her first hot tamale. It was so hot she spit it out of her mouth and into the trash. A half hour later, Sydney was swimming in the pool and realized her tooth was gone. The girls swam all over the pool looking for her tooth and did not find it. Mama found it in the trash, stuck inside that hot tamale. The tooth fairy arrived and when she woke me up to show me her crisp five dollar bill, I asked her if she was happy with what the tooth fairy left her and she told me it wasn’t very much. She wanted five bucks. Five bucks is five dollars kid! First tooth in the history books.
Loose Tooth Envy
From the Book of: Trials and Tribulations of Managing Twins Solo
Part V, Chapter 9
July 12, 2021
It’s late evening and I am feverishly working at my desk while Syd and Sash finish up their dinner. All of a sudden, I feel the heat of a small being behind my chair. I turn away from my work to see Sydney with the look of a child about to burst into tears. “What is wrong, my little chicken?” I ask. Her finger pulls down her bottom lip and she winces as she tells me her tooth hurts.
All mothers know this moment… the one where a little boo boo becomes the trauma of a life time and in their minds, no amount of comfort will soften the pain they currently experience. It is the moment where we wonder, is this going to be a blip in time and a distraction will make them move on? Or will this boo boo consume an immeasurable amount of time where crying goes on for half the day? In which case, I will probably need to pour a glass of wine.
I ask Sydney to flash me all her pearly whites and let me look in her tiny little mouth. I know that if I want to touch the offending tooth, my request will likely be futile.
My toughest child is also my biggest baby. She walks around the house with her arm bent covering the top of her eyes to shield her gaze from all of the scary monsters hiding in the house. If I stand in the kitchen, ten feet away from the bathroom, this child will still ask me to turn on the light and come with her. If she falls down and scrapes her knee, she would rather bleed to death than let me clean it or put a band-aid on it. I can hardly cut her toenails without it being a production. And itchy cream for a mosquito bite is a big no no. Also, I can’t get too close to her belly button because it tickles too much and I can barely get a brush near her head because if I pull one strand of hair the wrong way, she may combust. Her funny bone is a target for constant injuries and if my nail accidentally scratches her arm, she will wail like an opera singer and tell me I am a meanie for hurting her.
Now that I have given away most of my child’s dirty little secrets, I ask Syd where the pain is. She points to her bottom front tooth. “Can I touch it?” I ask.
(tears) “Nooooooo!!!! it will hurt!”
“Does it hurt when you eat something cold or hot?”
“Yes.” She says. “When I eat something cold and hot.”
She is totally making that up.
“Maybe your teeth are sensitive.” I comment.
“Now, can Dr. Mom touch your teeth?” I ask again.
“Ok.” She replies, with trepidation.
I put my finger on a bottom tooth, with the expectation that I could lose a finger at any moment. In an effort to determine which tooth is in pain, I start to touch each one. I don’t have to go too far to discover that my baby has her first loose tooth. I squeal with excitement and I share the news with her. It is after all, big news. A milestone in her development. Her eyes get really big and I say, “let’s go see in the mirror.” She takes my hand and we walk into the bathroom together. She hops up onto her stool and asks me to show her. The moment is not lost on me. Yesterday, I drew happiness from the discovery of her first tooth coming in and today, my baby is a little person ready to begin shedding that first tooth.
I am filled with delight as I wiggle her tooth in the mirror for her to see. I then place her finger on her tooth and let her wiggle it for herself. I explain how her tooth will get more loose as the days go by and one day it will just fall out. She may be eating or sleeping or playing with it and it will just fall out. I told her it may bleed a little, but we will just put a tissue there to stop the bleeding. The most important thing will be to save her tooth for the tooth fairy.
She barely hears a word I say. All she wants to do is to go and tell her sister. [Cue the drama].
She runs back into the living room yelling “My tooth is loose!! Sasha!!! I have a loose tooth and you don’t.”
Goddamnit, I think to myself. Why in the hell did she have to go and one up her sister like that?! Sasha hears the news and yells “That’s not fair! I want a loose tooth!” She is full on in the throes of a tantrum now.
I can’t believe my eyes and ears. I did not expect that reaction. Although, I guess I should not be surprised. Sasha is extremely temperamental. I feel as though I am watching Sasha turn into Violet from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory and I find myself secretly hoping that the Oompa Loompas will come and roll her away so I can enjoy this moment with Sydney. However, the Oompa Loompas do not arrive to save the day and I am left choosing to ignore her behavior and take Sydney back to the bathroom.
While Sasha is acting like Animal throwing a major fit in the background, Sydney is now filled with a million anxious questions. “How will my tooth fall out, mama? When will it fall out? What happens if it falls out while I am sleeping and I bleed all over my bed? Will it bleed a lot? Can the tooth fairy bring me an iPad?”
She is sadly disappointed when I tell her that the tooth fairy will not bring an iPad and that the tooth fairy is poor from paying money to collect all the children’s teeth of the world. I dampen her spirit further when I tell her the tooth fairy will probably only bring her a little bit of money. “Awe, mommmmmm, I really hoped for that iPad.”
“What happens if I swallow my tooth, mama?”
“Well, kid… if you swallow your tooth, I guess we will just have to wait for you to poop it out.”
“What?! That is dis-gusting!” She exclaims.
Sasha is still going off in the other room crying about how unfair life is and the only way I am going to diffuse her is if I ask to feel her teeth too. As I go in for a quick feel, I abruptly remember that the other day, she told me her tooth hurt while she was eating. I failed to pay any attention to it. I honestly wasn’t expecting toothless grins until they were at least six years old.
She opens her mouth wide and I feel her bottom teeth. Sure enough, Sasha also has a loose tooth. I then see that her top tooth is out of place and it wiggles when I touch it. I tell her and the flow of tears stop and there is now pandemonium in the house. The tables are reversed and Sasha is now rubbing it in her sister’s face that she in fact has two loose teeth, while Sydney only has one. My eyes are rolling so far in the back of my head, they may not come forth again.
Sasha now has all the same questions as her sister and I have to explain all the possible scenarios over again.
I then take a trip down memory lane and tell both Sydney and Sasha that when Tia and mama were little girls, their grandpa used to tie one end of dental floss to a loose tooth and the other end to the bathroom door. Grandpa would then casually slam the door and our tooth would come out, blood everywhere. I also told them how traumatic those experiences were and how fortunate they are that I would never do that to them. They stared in disbelief and asked if it hurt. Fuck yea it hurt, kid.
One of the hardest things to manage with twins is the fairness factor. The envy and competition is real. Being the same age, they want exactly what the other one has at the exact same moment. Neither of them gets to be the big sister first having an experience on their own. Everything pretty much happens to them at the same time. I can’t spend time with one kid or buy a gift for one without the other one complaining about fairness. The mom in me who does not want to raise whiny, puny adults tells them to get used to it. Life isn’t fair. But the lover in me wants to find a way to let them each discover the wisdom of not wanting the same things as their sister and the patience to know that everything in its right time and place.
The Shame of Lice
From the Book of: Trials and Tribulations of Managing Twins Solo
Part V, Chapter 1
November 20, 2020
It’s a Tuesday morning and the kids are safe at school in their learning environment. I am at home, sometimes loving the work from home vibe and other times not so much. Today is one of those love it mornings, because I have finally squeezed some free time in for a much needed workout. I’ve got a very tight band around my ankles and my ass is practically touching the ground in a squat when the phone rings. It’s school calling. “What’s wrong?” I ask. I wasn’t expecting the head of school on the other end of the line. “Don’t worry, nothing’s wrong… well, something is wrong, but still, don’t worry!”she proclaimed. It’s like Jewish tag. To worry or not to worry. That is the question. The school administration always prefaces the random call in the middle of the day with “Don’t worry.. nothing is wrong.”
Of course something is wrong else you wouldn’t be calling. You know the calls. Hey, your kid has diarrhea and has been to the toilet 5 times in 30 minutes or your kid bit someone and I’m obligated in not so many words to tell you that your kid is a little asshole and she may or may not fail at life with her reprehensible behavior. But on this day, it went something like “someone in the turquoise class has lice. As a consequence, we are checking all the heads and I think Sydney has nits. Please come get both of your children.” Fuck my life. I am pretty sure I said that out loud.
What in the hell is a nit? The dictionary defines a nit as the egg of a parasitic insect. Ooooooooh gross and also no. Not in my house! Someone just pointed out to me the egg of lice is where we get the phrase “nit picking” from. Who the hell knew? Well, I guess she did.
As soon as I heard the word lice come out of the admin’s mouth, my head started itching. The paranoia set in and my workout was complete before it began as I set to burn the house down with all linens, clothes and stuffed animals inside. I think this approach would actually have been easier than frantically stripping beds and inquisitively trying to determine just how high the heat can get on the washing machine. And of course, Sydney had been snuggling with me that very early morning in my bed, infected with parasitic larvae, so there was the destruction of my room that also had to be complete. Mother f’er. Burn the f’n house down. Do it now!
Not a month earlier, some good friends had been through this. I was on the periphery hearing the hellacious nature of their experience and I actually remember thinking, thank god, it’s not mine. Shame the dirty kid who got lice. Karma is a bitch mother fucker and by mother fucker, I mean me.
I immediately got the name of the lice clinic and called to make an appointment. Of course they were booked up. It’s a killer business and also just disgusting. I made the first appointment I could get but it wasn’t until 12:30. What in the hell was I going to do with them for 2 hours? Leave them at school for as long as possible seemed like the right choice. I picked them up and immediately asked them if their heads were itching.. no mama, I am not itchy, mama. Well then why are you itching your head, you little liar?!
We rolled up to the Lice Clinic. The sign was as big as cirque du soleil. Who wants to advertise that, I wondered? We went inside and the lobby was smaller than a bathroom. Sasha was claustrophobic, not that she yet knows what that means, but she said, “mama, I don’t want to eat my lunch in here. It’s too small.” Good call kid, because I can’t breathe in here either. So out we went. They copped a squat on the cement floor, rolled out their lunch mat, removed their covid suffocating masks and ate their lunch as if they were still at school but with a different view. All the while little parasitic lice were likely incubating in their scalp. Again. Disgusting.
It was finally our turn and we were ushered into this sterile, fluorescent lit back room. I felt like we were headed into interrogation room 3, where twin 1 had to hop up on the barber chair for a full body inspection.
Sharona wasn’t wearing a hazmat suit, her hair was long and down and the room was not covered in plastic wrap as I expected it to be. What is this place and why are they letting the lice roam free?? She proceeded to tell me how much she loves her job and then schooled me on how lice actually work. Lice can’t live anywhere but on the scalp. Sharona told me in a monotone voice that lice can’t spread unless the nits have hatched. Well, Jesus.. thank god for small favors.
Before she ever touched a hair on my kid’s head, she rolled out the prices. $20 for each louse comb (each kid had to have their own) and if there were nits or lice, the delousing procedure was $150 a pop. “Do you want me to check your head too?” She asked me. “Umm, yes please, is that a trick question??” “I can save you $20 if I check your head first and if you don’t have it, mama, I’ll use the same comb on kid number 2. This place is a racquet. And also, I would have thrown up if I had to do it myself. Thanks Lice clinic for being a special part of the neighborhood.
Sharona started by spraying Sasha’s hair with some mint concoction and trying to brush through that ratty tatty mess on her head. She then took the louse comb and started scraping her head and hair in sections and dumping the findings in a bucket of water. I peeked in. I had no idea what I was looking at. Hair and dry scalp? Nope. Tiny white nits. She was infected. Off with her head! Err, I mean shave her head! I wanted to yell out!
Next, it was my turn for an inspection. I think I slept through the entire experience or went into an induced coma.. not sure, because I don’t remember anything other than her telling me I was clean. I get to keep my locks. Yay! Why did my head still itch? Was she sure? Was she pretending so I would have to come back and spend another small fortune? Come on, Plessner, not everyone is trying to run a con on you.
Next, it was Sydney’s turn.. she was fearless, but poor little tough girl has a very sensitive head and that was an extremely unpleasant experience for her. Her eyes welled up and she was brave. I told her it was ok to cry, but it had to be done. She held me close and all I could think was I love you, but I don’t want to be anywhere near you and your nits right now. The nanny showed up and I burned out of there so fast I’m sure I left a trail of smoking rubber on my way out the door.
Three days later and I’m still itching my head wondering if those little fuckers are in there.. moral of this chapter… head lice is vile, but if you catch it before they hatch, you won’t have to burn your house to the ground.
Vexation in the Time of Corona
From the Book of: Trials and Tribulations of Managing Twins Solo
Part IV, Chapter 6
April 7, 2020
It’s 7:30 pm, the night before Tia goes back to work at the hospital. She has been on a 2 week quarantine for traipsing off to Europe in the middle of a pandemic. She went to get the hell away from all of us and celebrate her birthday up the forties hill. We are in the Situation Room discussing the protocols for how to protect our abode once she comes home from said hospital. Breaking news from the mouths of babes interrupts the huddle.
Sydney, my sweet little monster child, has chosen to make this night different from all other nights by declaring she no longer wants to wear a pull up. It’s about fucking time I think to myself. But do I really want to be woken up in the middle of the night because she flooded her bed with small child pee? Not really. This could go on for longer than the days of Passover. This child sleeps like the dead, so it’s no wonder she is 4.5 years old and still wearing a diaper at night. “Mommmmmmmmm, it’s not a diaper.. it’s a pull up!” (hands on hips, voice elevated)
I sweetly remind her that if she wets her bed, please do not scream and wake the whole house. Rather, she should come quietly upstairs, breathe in my face and scare the ever loving shit out of me while I am dead asleep. That way I can get her out of her sopping wet clothes, mop the floor for every wet footprint from my room to hers, pull her sheets from her bed in the dark and make it back upstairs to clean her up and clothe her before she starts melting down. She acquiesces and I think to myself, no way will this go down the way I have curated.
But like clockwork, she is standing in front of my confused face at 3 in the morning telling me, mommy, I didn’t pee, it’s just sweat. Uh huh, my little chicken.. that most definitely is pee, unless, in your dreams, you were being chased by a crocodile swimming across a lake.
We are now on night 3 and not only has she peed in her bed and mine but she is peeing on herself during the day like potty training is new to her. Puddles and rivers are forming all over the house.
The next morning, on little sleep, I do my best to start the Monday off like a school day with some early morning cartoons thrown in for good measure. And then, I leave my scissor obsessed kids to their work. And by work, I mean they have to figure out which picture inside a jelly bean goes to which letter sounds on a jar, color it, cut it and glue it to the correct jar. Both yelling at the same time for my attention, I wonder how in the hell it’s possible for their teachers to have so much control over 4 times as many whining, needy children. I certainly don’t have the gift for homeschooling.
There comes a point in the lesson where I think I have explained it well enough that their tiny brains have turned on and they start to figure it out. Now seems like a good time to make my escape and go take a shower. What could go wrong?
Lah dee dah.. this is going to be a long day. I don’t even have one foot out the shower door and Sasha comes running in, “mama, but mama, Sydney cut her hair! Come, you have to see!”
Fuck the towel, as I am now the one sprinting naked, leaving wet footprints and yelling “cease and desist! put those scissors down! What the fuck are you doing?!” It’s the moment I’ve been waiting for. It had to be coming, right? Every child butchers their hair at some point and I’m running and thinking, please don’t let it be a bald patch or an Edward scissor hands kind of cut. And I get to the dining room and Sydney is hiding under the table.
I drag both chairs out at the same time like I have the strength of Wonder Woman and I sternly request that she come out of hiding and show me the abomination that has transpired. She comes out, hair clumps on the floor and I can’t quite figure out what’s missing from where until I realize a chunk is nowhere to be found from the left side of her head and also new uneven layers now appear in the back. It’s a shit show, but I breathe a sigh of relief. We can work with this, I think.
She tells me, “ok mama.. no more self styling.. but mama, but mama, Sasha did it. She is the one who cut my hair!” I look over at Sasha and she proclaims “I didn’t do it! She is lying! You are lying, you poopy head diarrhea!” When did this kind of retort become a thing?? And then Sasha proceeds to wail like her good name has been defamed for eternity.
By this time, it’s only 8:30am and I’m ready for a stiff cocktail. The fighting, whining, crying and tantrums continue all day and I’m wondering what in the hell am I doing wrong as a mother? And then Sydney hits Sasha in the face with a tennis racquet. Someone may very well not survive this day. And it carries on from there loaded with chapters more of drama.
What I am struck with during the time of Corona is how easy it is for us to be vexed and short tempered with our kids who long for some semblance of structure, our presence and our attention. But due to the unprecedented nature of our current reality, the kids have almost no organization to their wild and carefree daily life. And while kids this young are malleable and adaptable, I must be kidding myself to think that they aren’t in some way affected by all of the changes that have caused these behavioral shifts. All I can do is love them hard, sprinkled with some good old fashion yelling when I have reached my parental tolerance limits and then love ’em some more. After all, these are growing pains for everyone and this too shall change. My kids are too young to understand what is going on and hopefully this will all just be a blip on their consciousness when they are older. They will have their mama home for more than a month, which is the longest we have had together since I was on maternity leave. It’s a big deal and I need to remember that these are precious days even at 3 in the morning when I’m cleaning up spilled pee.
Who Dunnit?
From the Book of: Trials and Tribulations of Managing Twin Toddlers Solo
Part III, Chapter 8
*Rated F for foul language
September 25, 2018
It was early morning and I stood in the kitchen preparing the girls lunches for school. I heard the babies awaken by the back and forth banter between them. I knew that Tia had to go to work and would probably get them up for me, so I continued with my chore of deciding which foods I thought they may or may not eat for their lunch.
While busy in the kitchen, I heard a commotion. Tia was yelling about poop. Although I could not quite make out what was happening downstairs, it appeared that the kids were naked in their cribs, having stripped themselves of their pajamas and diapers. One would have thought that the internal core temperature of their room had turned into a Bikram yoga studio at a boiling 105 degrees and they just had to get naked to cool off. In addition, they were jumping up and down on their trampoline cribs like athletic competitors on the tv show American Ninja Warrior Junior.
And in that moment, I heard Tia screaming about some shit on the carpet. I thought to myself, the girls wouldn’t possibly shit in their diapers and then take them off and throw them on the floor. That would be a first. By this time though, I’m feverishly trying to finish what I’m doing so that I can go check on the commotion. And then I hear Sydney clunking up the stairs, saying “Mama, Dani pooped on the FUCKING carpet!” Over and over she repeated this mantra as she got to the top of the stairs. I could not contain my amusement and equal horror at the sound of my child stringing that entire sentence together. Fortunately by the time she was standing in front of me announcing the morning Headline news of the Plessner house, she had managed to drop the word “fucking” and it had just become “Mama, Dani pooped on the carpet!”
I wondered to myself, how bad could this possibly be? Dani doesn’t poop in the house.. so who dunnit? I grabbed a roll of paper towels and some stain remover just in case, because by the sounds of it, Tia was losing her shit. (Pun intended)
Sydney and I hurried down the stairs together and as I trepidatiously walked into the nursery, I saw Tia standing on the sidelines with one flip flop in her hand and an enormous mountain of soupy shit piled up in the middle of the rug like the poop emoji. Tia handled the situation like the room was a crime scene about to be contaminated by unaware little toddler feet and she seemed more concerned with the shit on her flip flop than helping to clean up the most horrific smelling shit bomb I have ever seen. She had somehow managed to step into that turd pile and was freaking out about the fact that she had trailed that poop across the room, into the hallway and into her bathroom. She was a goner. I lost her to the bathtub, disinfectant and shitty flip flop that needed to be scrubbed clean.
I stood there surveying the natural disaster and realized that the who dunnit was definitely poor Dani. She had been locked in that night and had the runs in the early morning that clearly could not be contained. It was quite evident that my kids could not have pushed that kind of shit storm out their tiny little bodies. Everyone was frozen in place and ordered not to move. The smell was so horrific, I would have welcomed a gas mask. I didn’t think I would be able to pick all of this shit soup up, but I managed to go through a few hundred sheets of paper towels and then had to coax Tia back in to help me get the rug outside so we could hose it down. We sprayed that rug for so long the pattern almost came off and then left it to bake in the hot summer sun for days before I could remember to schedule a carpet cleaner to come and properly decontaminate that pitiful rug. Now everything is back to normal and we roll around on that rug like nothing ever happened. The end.
Lessons learned: leave the doggy door unlocked at night; don’t count on doctor Tia when shit gets messy and don’t automatically assume that my kids mischievous behavior is always the cause of chaos in the house.
Untitled
June 30, 2018
Parenting Without a Guide Book. That may be the title to the 2nd book I write after Trials and Tribulations of Managing Twin Toddlers Solo. I googled it and it doesn’t appear to be taken at this point.
Deeeeep breaths.. every day, for what feels like a billion times a day. Truly, there is no appropriate guide book other than living through it. I look at them sometimes and I still can’t believe that I created these little humans. As we approach their 3rd birthday, Apple TV’s photo screensaver reminds me of how tiny they used to be, along with all of their little milestones and quirky little behaviors. And I notice the up level of their development that begins with a preview of what age 3 will be like. It goes something like this: “no mommy”, “you go away mommy”, “I don’t want it mommy!” And then, “I want it mommy!” So that I am like a ping pong ball between their crazy mood swings. But the best preview of their three’s is their complete and utter defiance done with an evil smirk on their face. Oh, and then there is my changing behavior that has me repeating statements my mother used to say to me as a child. WTF?
There are some days where I am a bodhisattva under a tree and I can totally handle two screaming, crying, tantrum throwing children non-stop for 2 hours.. it’s like juggling knives, I’m all calm and concentrating on the knives…err, I mean the children. But some days, holy fuck, I’m like a fire breathing dragon that just reacts to their loony toon behavior. And then there are days like today, when they are running around the house playing together, giggling and being absolutely adorable with each other and all of the horrible, no good very bad behavior suddenly ceases to exist. How do they do that? It’s love. That’s how. Because everything changes except for the love. It is the foundation for everything. It is the reminder that even when things are difficult, if we return to love, every little thing is gonna be alright.
The Short But Long Fall
From the Book of: Trials and Tribulations of Managing Twin Toddlers Solo
Part III, Chapter 26
April 25, 2018
Oh. MY. GOD. It finally happened. That moment every mother dreads. Well, there are many moments that we dread, but the one I am specifically talking about happens somewhere between ages 2 and 3. The one where your daredevil, accident prone child falls out of her crib and lands in a position no human with bones should escape unscathed. And I’m going to call her out too. It was Sasha. This child lives in a dream world, off fantasizing about bunny rabbits, unicorns, flying on my feet and picking all the flowers off a bush, which means she is not typically aware of her surroundings. She has fallen on her face more times than I can count. In 6 months alone, we have had a trip to the ER for a gash on her eyebrow after flying into the coffee table (that’s in Part III, chapter 14), and 2 weeks ago, she torpedoed right off the inflatable bouncer at the Little Gym onto her face, then hyperextended her legs over her head so that her cervical spine was contorted. I had to flip her over carefully to make sure that her body parts were still intact. And then still, this morning, after last night’s debacle, she dove forward on the driveway right onto her face. I swear, she was standing still too.
We were having quite a pleasant evening getting ready for bed. It was like Hannukkah in spring. There was no drama, no poops in the bath, no fighting and everyone was in a good mood. We had just finished reading our books and we were practicing assisted climbs into the cribs. Sydney does her routine like a sweet little girl and lies down immediately asking for blankie, water and kisses. Sasha on the other hand, stands on the railing of her crib like she is about to base jump off a mountain and actually says, “ready, set, go” while I fly her safely into her crib. She then typically proceeds to use her mattress as a trampoline in an attempt to exhaust any remaining energy. Lately, she has been pressing her belly on the railing and lifting her feet off the mattress to see if she can balance. I warned her that those kind of shenanigans will eventually cause her to fall on her head and that it isn’t safe. She must have had wax clogging up her ears, because clearly she heeded that warning like a puppy told not to chase squirrels across the street. I turned my back for one second and then I heard the thud and whimper. Yep, my child had fallen over the crib railing and was hanging in some awkward head down position, body straight as a board on top of a box of stuffed animals that had somewhat broken her fall. I have no idea what part of her body hit the floor except for the fact that she was bleeding from inside her mouth a bit and there had been another hyperextension of her neck. It is in those moments where, as a parent, I feel like I am in a slow motion picture. The fall was short, but felt really long. Fortunately, Tia was there and while totally freaked out, immediately put on her doctor hat to safely disentangle Sasha from between the cribs and the toy box. My reflexes sometimes seem like that of a 90 year old granny. I feel like someone stuck me in the freezer and I couldn’t move. (This happened once when Sydney was dangling off the baby gate over the stairs). All my thoughts were jumbled: did she break any bones? Is her head going to roll off her body? Will she wake up tomorrow? God, I love her more than anything in the world, please let her be ok and have a long and happy life. She was certainly in shock and after laying on my lap for a while and checking to make sure all systems were functioning properly, she let me know a few times that “mommy, I fall down” and then hugged me for dear life, leaving my shirt a wet, soggy, blood stained mess.
I am a pretty chill mom, but these are the kind of events that make the Namaste leave my senses and are replaced by high blood pressure, nail biting and irrational fears that my child isn’t going to make it to see her 3rd birthday, much less adulthood. The other day I diagnosed myself with a mild form of PTSD. It comes from parenting toddlers whose moods shift like the wind in a hurricane. One minute they are ecstatically happy and then you can hand them the yogurt the wrong way and all of a sudden the blood curdling screams and tears that ensue are as if I just took away their favorite toy and the world is going to end. There is now a low grade, but constant unease that has bundled itself in knots in my traps and neck. It is the silent dread of not knowing when the monster is going to come around the corner and upset the shaky balance in the house. I have instinctively known that this moment was coming for a while now, but it does not mean I am prepared for the changes of having to move my kids into toddler beds for their own safety and the difficulties that will come from not being able to contain them any longer. Not that anyone in the house is concerned with my welfare, but my safety will be completely compromised when I have a heart attack in the middle of the night because one of my mini-me’s big, wide eyes are staring me down at the edge of my bed, saying in a maniacal voice, “mama, I want in your bed now!” I am not ready for my kids to invade the only personal time I have all day. I hope this transition will go smoother than the other next big hurdle of potty training. I think it is time for mama to take a vacation. If anyone needs me, I will be in Europe.
Please Don’t Give my Kid Special-K
From the Book of: Trials and Tribulations of Managing Twin Toddlers Solo
Part III, Chapter 14
February 5, 2018
On my way home from a work conference in Austin, I stopped off at the hospital to visit a friend who had just had surgery. In order to get home to say goodnight to the girls, I had to leave at the peak insanity of mad Houston traffic. My sister texted me while I was jammed on the freeway and in her classic brief intonation, asked, “where you at?” I thought to myself, damn, I’m a lot closer than I would like to be. She wants to know if I’ll be home in time to give them a bath. Please give them a bath I thought to myself, as I texted her and told her I was stuck in traffic. When I arrived home, the house was quiet, you know, the kind of quiet that existed when I was just a single woman living the high life. The only time the house is this silent is when either there are no children, someone is in the corner behind a couch taking a poo, or one is into something they shouldn’t be. I peeked in the bathroom, no one there. I thought surely, Melissa didn’t put them to bed early. And yet, there was no one in the house. The only possible place they could be was next door. So I walked into my neighbors house to find Sasha in my sisters arms being inspected for a bloody head laceration by our ER doctor neighbor. I felt like I had just walked in to a scene where the film was in painful slow motion. “What’s going on?” I demanded, as I scanned the room for my other child, who was happily playing in a wonderland of new toys.
Did Sydney beat the shit out of Sasha, I wondered? Because if so, I will be signing her up for a combination of classes including, but not limited to, anger management for toddlers, Meditation, yoga and boxing. It turned out, however, that Sasha was running to tia on the couch and took a flying leap into the coffee table. She had a fresh gash across her eyebrow and while there was blood, fortunately it wasn’t a gusher. The hospitalist, Dr. Plessner was taking a consult from the ER doctor Sarah to determine whether Sasha needed stitches or could be glued back together with Elmer’s. It was her assessment that because of the location and depth of the gash, plain old glue wouldn’t work and she needed to be sedated and stitched up. Next came the question of where to go. If we went to urgent care down the road, they probably wouldn’t sedate her and she would have handled that experience like a wounded animal caught in a snare and her pretty little angelic face would have been mangled for sure. If we went to the Mecca of children’s hospitals, Texas Children’s would definitely sedate her. Why wasn’t my sister’s hospital on the list? We chose the Mecca. Sasha said, “boo boo. We go in ambulance to hospital.” “Yes, my love” I replied, as we all piled into my car at 7:30 pm where I turned on the imaginary emergency lights and headed to the medical center. We were in for a long night. We arrived at TC, got rid of the car and dragged both confused and bewildered children into the zoo that is TC. I let my sister run the show, and my job was to herd my kids.
We went in and they took our information immediately. I wondered, why did we surpass all these other people? Are we special? Hell no. After they had taken her temp, bp, weight and asked me questions to determine whether they should call child protective services, they let me know the wait would be 8-10 hours. Say what the fuck?! You must be joking? Nope. Ok, we are out of here. Thanks, but no thanks. Melissa then called her hospital and talked to the attending at Hermann who said she would take care of us. So that is where we went. Now the kids were getting agitated…. to be continued.
Mine. No, Mine Mommy
From the Book of: Trials and Tribulations of Managing Twin Toddlers Solo
Part III, Chapter 12
January 24, 2018
Mine. No mine. Mine mommy. An “I need” spewed from their sweet little lips every 5 seconds like a parrot that doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up. I need yogurt. I need bunnies. I need hoo hoo (the name of Sydney’s stuffed owl). I need rubber band. I need sock. My shoe. No mine. You can see it in their glossed over eyes too.. it’s like they don’t even know they are doing it. It sometimes feels like I am a guest on an episode of WestWorld, my kids are hosts and their lives are controlled by the programmers. Or maybe, an alien ET has invaded one of my children and stuck its long pasty finger in some circuitry of their brain to turn my kid into a robot. They say, and by they, I mean the educators of my children, that this is the period of time in a child’s life where they are the most self absorbed. They struggle to control selfish impulses because the left dorsolateral prefrontal cortex, linked with self control, is not fully developed yet. So that essentially means that toddlers are self indulgent little assholes. They can go onto the playground, hone in on a kid who has something they want and just like that, shove that poor kid, bite him and take what they want, well because, “mine.”
There is a moment in the morning that is the worst as a parent of twins. When I open that door to their room and they haven’t awakened happy and excited to start the day, but rather look like their WestWorld programming has gone haywire and the yelling matches begin. My mommy. No my mommy.. and I have to play eenie, meeny, miney, mo (who the hell came up with that ridiculous game?) to choose who gets out of their crib first. I swear, the loser of that rhyming game is boring holes in the back of my head while I change the 5 pound diaper that has collected more pee overnight than any human should produce in an 11 hour period. I then try to explain to my wayward kids that I am both of their mommies. Who knows if my words are penetrating. When all toddlers are safely out of their cribs, I proceed to rectify the calamity by huddling everyone together and asking that they give each other a hug, then say I love you and give a kiss. They giggle and do as I ask and then all seems right in their universe for at least the moment.
Head Always Up Own Ass
From the Book of: Trials and Tribulations of Managing Twin Toddlers Solo
Chapter 101
October 9, 2017
I have learned that when you are a mama with young kids, you often have to schedule adult time way in advance. I have also learned that twin toddlers who are about to turn 2, are complete maniacs. It’s like someone opened them up (without my permission) and inserted turbo charged energizer bunny batteries in them that never corrode. They are the only humans I know who can throw a tantrum wrapped around your ankles for 20 minutes, while periodically looking at you with a twinkle in their eye and a smirk on their adorable Jekyll and Hyde faces. I also love it when people think I have my shit together and make being a single mom of twins look easy because my kids are cute. I am a complete train wreck. I don’t breathe, I have insane migraines, a complete lack of ability to focus, and wild anxiety. I haven’t been to a yoga class in over 2 weeks and I can’t remember shit, even if it is written down in a book I never look at.
Case in point: I secured a kid free date with the lovely Rhia Robinson over 2 weeks ago to go see James Vincent McMorrow in concert. I was excited to give Rhia and myself some time to remember what it was like to be youngish and chain free. To, for one moment, lose ourselves in sound and to know that uber had our backs when we had too much to drink. But seriously, who am I kidding? I can’t hold my liquor anymore when I know sleep is a rare commodity and I can’t lay on the couch the next day in a coma. But I digress… the concert was last night and while JVM was crooning and women were swooning, my hands were scooping out hot stinky pumpkin guts while my kids were tossing their food on the floor, saying “punkin” over and over again to no tune in particular. Clearly Rhia forgot too, because she texted me this morning to see if we were still on for our date tonight. My head is always up my ass and my doctor confirmed it Friday when he used his otoscope to check my ears and told me there was nothing between my ears but light.
The Irony of Self Entrapment
From the Book of: Trials and Tribulations of Managing Twin Toddlers Solo
Chapter 86
June 17, 2017
Grandma comes over on Friday afternoons to spend time with the girls and cook Shabbat dinner for all of us. She spends the night and will stay with the girls on Saturday mornings so I can go to a yoga class or run some errands. (Yes.. I am extremely grateful for grandma’s generosity)
Recently, I put in a request for grandma to get up with the girls, so I could just stay in bed. I mean, she is here.. why not utilize grandma to the fullest extent, right? And I am just down to the bones kind of exhausted. Not because I don’t sleep, but because I am in “go” mode at least 14 hours of every day. It isn’t like I can sleep though. My body is awake and ready to kiss my sweet babies good morning and see their smiles and laughter. To watch them respond to new things they learn from Elmo and Cookie Monster. It actually takes a lot of effort for me not to get up and go love on them. So I’m in here. The boudoir. Tucked in nice and cozy in my bed determined not to squander this gift of rest and I feel trapped. I’m starving and the insurgents are just on the other side of the door squealing and munching on their breakfast while general grandma keeps an eye on whether someone is trying to climb on a table or break their neck with my new yoga wheel. There is no way out but through that door and into the baby zone. I need an escape route. Perhaps a zip line from my bedroom window to the other side of the fence where tacos a-go go waits for me. My stomach is growling. How am I going to feed myself? The smell of coffee is wafting under the door like a smoke bomb. I think to myself, at least I have water. I got up while everyone was sleeping to make sure my cup runneth over, so I wouldn’t become parched. Suddenly I remember there is a kashi bar in my purse. Must be learned behavior of never leaving the house without a snack while pregnant. Do I ration this bar or eat the whole thing? How long am I going to keep myself trapped in here? I hear the general and twins in a stand off each telling the other one “No!” The pull is so strong to go out into the battlefield and be bombarded by grunting, groaning and babies pulling me down to the floor. I resist the temptation. Doesn’t grandma have the foresight to know I am in here starving to death? Meditation should help with hunger, shouldn’t it? Use your breath. Turn all the external distractions off. You are trained for this for crying out loud. Use the force. “Your focus determines your reality,” said the Phantom Menace. Ah, fuck it. Good morning babies. Mama is ready for breakfast.
Blueberry Poop
From the Book of: Trials and Tribulations of Managing Twin Toddlers Solo
Chapter 70
March 3, 2017
When you dry off twin toddler 1 and she fights having her diaper put on, only to look over in the tub and see twin toddler 2 wading in a bath of shit, blueberries and toys that will now need to be incinerated. You promptly eject poopy laden toddler 2 out of said poopy tub and try to clean her off only to find twin toddler 1 now with no diaper throwing her pacifier in said poopy tub. Shabbat shalom ya’ll.
Loose Tooth Envy
From the Book of: Trials and Tribulations of Managing Twins Solo
Part V, Chapter 9
July 12, 2021
It’s late evening and I am feverishly working at my desk while Syd and Sash finish up their dinner. All of a sudden, I feel the heat of a small being behind my chair. I turn away from my work to see Sydney with the look of a child about to burst into tears. “What is wrong, my little chicken?” I ask. Her finger pulls down her bottom lip and she winces as she tells me her tooth hurts.
All mothers know this moment… the one where a little boo boo becomes the trauma of a life time and in their minds, no amount of comfort will soften the pain they currently experience. It is the moment where we wonder, is this going to be a blip in time and a distraction will make them move on? Or will this boo boo consume an immeasurable amount of time where crying goes on for half the day? In which case, I will probably need to pour a glass of wine.
I ask Sydney to flash me all her pearly whites and let me look in her tiny little mouth. I know that if I want to touch the offending tooth, my request will likely be futile.
My toughest child is also my biggest baby. She walks around the house with her arm bent covering the top of her eyes to shield her gaze from all of the scary monsters hiding in the house. If I stand in the kitchen, ten feet away from the bathroom, this child will still ask me to turn on the light and come with her. If she falls down and scrapes her knee, she would rather bleed to death than let me clean it or put a band-aid on it. I can hardly cut her toenails without it being a production. And itchy cream for a mosquito bite is a big no no. Also, I can’t get too close to her belly button because it tickles too much and I can barely get a brush near her head because if I pull one strand of hair the wrong way, she may combust. Her funny bone is a target for constant injuries and if my nail accidentally scratches her arm, she will wail like an opera singer and tell me I am a meanie for hurting her.
Now that I have given away most of my child’s dirty little secrets, I ask Syd where the pain is. She points to her bottom front tooth. “Can I touch it?” I ask.
(tears) “Nooooooo!!!! it will hurt!”
“Does it hurt when you eat something cold or hot?”
“Yes.” She says. “When I eat something cold and hot.”
She is totally making that up.
“Maybe your teeth are sensitive.” I comment.
“Now, can Dr. Mom touch your teeth?” I ask again.
“Ok.” She replies, with trepidation.
I put my finger on a bottom tooth, with the expectation that I could lose a finger at any moment. In an effort to determine which tooth is in pain, I start to touch each one. I don’t have to go too far to discover that my baby has her first loose tooth. I squeal with excitement and I share the news with her. It is after all, big news. A milestone in her development. Her eyes get really big and I say, “let’s go see in the mirror.” She takes my hand and we walk into the bathroom together. She hops up onto her stool and asks me to show her. The moment is not lost on me. Yesterday, I drew happiness from the discovery of her first tooth coming in and today, my baby is a little person ready to begin shedding that first tooth.
I am filled with delight as I wiggle her tooth in the mirror for her to see. I then place her finger on her tooth and let her wiggle it for herself. I explain how her tooth will get more loose as the days go by and one day it will just fall out. She may be eating or sleeping or playing with it and it will just fall out. I told her it may bleed a little, but we will just put a tissue there to stop the bleeding. The most important thing will be to save her tooth for the tooth fairy.
She barely hears a word I say. All she wants to do is to go and tell her sister. [Cue the drama].
She runs back into the living room yelling “My tooth is loose!! Sasha!!! I have a loose tooth and you don’t.”
Goddamnit, I think to myself. Why in the hell did she have to go and one up her sister like that?! Sasha hears the news and yells “That’s not fair! I want a loose tooth!” She is full on in the throes of a tantrum now.
I can’t believe my eyes and ears. I did not expect that reaction. Although, I guess I should not be surprised. Sasha is extremely temperamental. I feel as though I am watching Sasha turn into Violet from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory and I find myself secretly hoping that the Oompa Loompas will come and roll her away so I can enjoy this moment with Sydney. However, the Oompa Loompas do not arrive to save the day and I am left choosing to ignore her behavior and take Sydney back to the bathroom.
While Sasha is acting like Animal throwing a major fit in the background, Sydney is now filled with a million anxious questions. “How will my tooth fall out, mama? When will it fall out? What happens if it falls out while I am sleeping and I bleed all over my bed? Will it bleed a lot? Can the tooth fairy bring me an iPad?”
She is sadly disappointed when I tell her that the tooth fairy will not bring an iPad and that the tooth fairy is poor from paying money to collect all the children’s teeth of the world. I dampen her spirit further when I tell her the tooth fairy will probably only bring her a little bit of money. “Awe, mommmmmm, I really hoped for that iPad.”
“What happens if I swallow my tooth, mama?”
“Well, kid… if you swallow your tooth, I guess we will just have to wait for you to poop it out.”
“What?! That is dis-gusting!” She exclaims.
Sasha is still going off in the other room crying about how unfair life is and the only way I am going to diffuse her is if I ask to feel her teeth too. As I go in for a quick feel, I abruptly remember that the other day, she told me her tooth hurt while she was eating. I failed to pay any attention to it. I honestly wasn’t expecting toothless grins until they were at least six years old.
She opens her mouth wide and I feel her bottom teeth. Sure enough, Sasha also has a loose tooth. I then see that her top tooth is out of place and it wiggles when I touch it. I tell her and the flow of tears stop and there is now pandemonium in the house. The tables are reversed and Sasha is now rubbing it in her sister’s face that she in fact has two loose teeth, while Sydney only has one. My eyes are rolling so far in the back of my head, they may not come forth again.
Sasha now has all the same questions as her sister and I have to explain all the possible scenarios over again.
I then take a trip down memory lane and tell both Sydney and Sasha that when Tia and mama were little girls, their grandpa used to tie one end of dental floss to a loose tooth and the other end to the bathroom door. Grandpa would then casually slam the door and our tooth would come out, blood everywhere. I also told them how traumatic those experiences were and how fortunate they are that I would never do that to them. They stared in disbelief and asked if it hurt. Fuck yea it hurt, kid.
One of the hardest things to manage with twins is the fairness factor. The envy and competition is real. Being the same age, they want exactly what the other one has at the exact same moment. Neither of them gets to be the big sister first having an experience on their own. Everything pretty much happens to them at the same time. I can’t spend time with one kid or buy a gift for one without the other one complaining about fairness. The mom in me who does not want to raise whiny, puny adults tells them to get used to it. Life isn’t fair. But the lover in me wants to find a way to let them each discover the wisdom of not wanting the same things as their sister and the patience to know that everything in its right time and place.
Musings on Life 