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Pass the paper bag, please…

I am afraid.

Very, very afraid.

Terrified.

Horrified.

I could very well die of the panic.

Turns out, contrary to my previously held opinion, I cannot keep the Two locked in a pram for the rest of their lives.

Yes. It has taken me until they are nearly three to realise this.

In my defence, I really and truly thought it would be completely acceptable to push them around in their second home until they were at least 4. Or maybe 6.

OK, so I was planning on letting them out of the pram at the age of 10.

However, the thing with multiples is that there is multiple. children.

Two in my case.

And two children are heavier than one.

Twice as heavy in fact.

Pushing them around, whilst great exercise, is becoming increasingly difficult.

In terms of my serious turning circle skillz, the heavier the Two get, the harder the pram is becoming to navigate.

Also, they have figured out how to twist and turn out of the harnesses.

So if I don’t teach them how to walk safely and in an orderly fashion soon, I’m screwed.

For my birthday in January, my mother bought me two child leashes.

She thought I would find it funny, and mildly offensive.

I found it hilarious. Even more hilarious was the look on my mother’s face when I did not take the bait.

You can call them what you will, but I call them leashes – and I do not think they are cruel.

At least, being attached to a safety strap (I think that’s the PC term) is much less cruel than being attached to the road.

As in squashed by a car.

And so I have begun allowing one or both boys to begin walking the last block home in an attempt to give them a little taste of freedom but also teach them the basics of life outside of the pram.

And oh, the anxiety!

Oscar seems to think he has an open invitation to everyone’s driveway – because really, who wouldn’t invite two nearly-3-year-old boys (with a love for throwing their own poo at each other) over for afternoon tea?

Fraser is determined to beat me home, so that he can take up residence on my front step and stop the rest of us getting inside (whilst we are all busting for the loo).

And that, my friends, is why I am afraid.

Not only is there the possibility of squashed toddler on the menu, but my pelvic floor really can’t take this much longer.

Although, the cute is almost worth it…

Tips? Constructive ones only, ploise. Commiserations? Only if you don’t tell me any horror stories. Wine? Always welcome, please contact me for postal address ASAP.

Researchers have identified poo-flinging as a sign of intelligence…

Seriously – google that and you will find many, many articles suggesting that monkeys who fling poo are actually the smart ones.

Which gives me great hope.

They look so sweet, right? WRONG!
Recently, the twins have hit a new level of disgusting.

I keep being told this is totally normal for boys.

And certainly, this has become my normal.

The other day I was actually pleased because the Two’s Poo Play had been confined just to the beds and the floor, and the windows, mirrored cupboard doors and the walls had all been given the steer clear.

Later on in the same day – after having successfully wee’d on the toilet with no misses during his waking, nappy free hours – Fraser watched Oscar walk to an empty spot in the loungeroom, and let free one hell of a mighty wee.

And then Fraser walked over, stood next to Oscar, and wee’d into the same puddle.

And then they looked at each other and laughed.

They think they are hilarious.

Pal tells me that they get the disgusting from him, but the sense of humour from me.

I’m screwed.

Do you have boys? Are they disgusting? Please tell me this is normal. If it isn’t, please tell me where the closest drop off centre is for poo-obsessed children. Or maybe the closest drop off centre for mothers driven mad via poo?

On nail polish, harvesters and (tentatively) leaping forward.

It’s been a tough couple of weeks – parenting wise – here.

The nearly-three-year-old Two are reveling in their twoness.

Playmates.

Wrestling opponents.

Teamwork. Oh, the teamwork.

Yo Gabba Gabba? You got some ‘splainin to do.

The new and exciting activity involves each getting behind a corner of the armchair, pushing it over to the quite-high mantel piece and pulling everything down.

And because this was a previously twin-free zone, I kept all things twin unfriendly upon that mantel piece.

Like nail polish.

I’ve obviously rectified that situation.

And yesterday, there was blood – matted hair, pushed down onto a Tonka Truck Harvester, blood.

Fraser has forgiven Oscar. He has not forgiven the Harvester.

Head injuries, hurt feelings and scraped knees are now so common that when someone cries, Roo immediately dobs in the culprit with a pointed finger and a flat-from-repetition:

“Him.”

The upside (if there is any) is that when one boy is hurting, the other is distressed. And I figure that will only result in the eventual end of The Hunger Games mindset and genetic predisposition towards destroying one another. Right?

Right? RIGHT??

Maybe just don’t answer that, for my good and yours.

–

Also yesterday, Oscar proved to me (and all the dance mums) that he can listen.

And that despite listening does not actually care what I have to say.

Edging closer and closer to the open door to the carpark, I warned the boy:

“Oscar. Don’t you go too close to the door!”

And so he didn’t go too close to the door.

Instead, he turned around, with a gleam in his eye and a hint of a sadistic smile for myself and all the other mums, and then?

Then he bolted. Right. Out. The. Door.

When I tell my mum that kid is a wild boy, she says to me:

“No. He’s a spoilt boy”

Which may or may not be true.

But I guess it doesn’t really matter how he got there, the results are the same.

–

Despite all of this frustrating behaviour, though, and the exhaustion that I realize will only leave my body when my adult children leave my house, I find myself loving being a parent again.

Frustrating behaviour is a sign my children are learning.

“Naughtiness” as it’s being displayed here shows mindfulness, intention and ultimately the beginnings of real people.

Real people that came out of my body, that I love with all my might.

And after so long, being lost in the fog and the stress and the anxiety, I wasn’t sure I ever could enjoy it – motherhood – again.

But there it is, a little scarred, a little wrinkled, smelling a little of a forgotten load of washing in the machine.

And I only hope that when the steps backward come, as is inevitable in any recovery (and have certainly been the case in mine) that I can recall this leap forward.

Know that it can be found.

A love of my life. My chaotic, stressful, poo-painted wall, wrong-coloured-drink-bottle-tantrum, full-hearted life.

On banks, rose gardens and moments of clarity.

So, it turns out I’m struggling to keep up with the blog again.

Once again I find myself writing posts in my head but never managing to get them down on paper or typed into a screen.

I’d like to say that I feel bad, but I really don’t – for two reasons.

A) It’s my blog and I’ll write if I want to.

B) I’m busy.

Busy doing what? You may ask.

Well, this:

I have been ploughing through my order list so that I can begin work on the Easter stocking. Which I decided would be on Wednesday 13th March at 7:30pm – make sure you are following my Facebook page because that’s where I will be posting info and the stock album!

I’ve also been doing a lot of this:

Yep. Parenting. Who knew it was all consuming?

You know, I was waiting outside the bank yesterday morning (again, because that’s where all the cool kids hang don’t ya know?) and a woman looked at the pram without the usual curiosity I receive from strangers.

Then she simply asked:

“How old are your boys?”

“They’re two and a half now!”

“Mine are 11!”

And I realised her lack of curiosity was simply familiarity. She was part of the club. A twin mum.

“Oh, 11. 11 sounds nice…” I said dreamily.

“Yes, there is light at the end of the tunnel. But 11 is a bit sad. A bit too grown up. I miss two and a half!”

“We are in the middle of toilet training…”

“So 100 pairs of clothes a day then?”

“Yep, and sheets and blankets!”

“I remember. But they’ll get there eventually. There is light at the end of the tunnel.”

“I have a four year old as well,” I said, smiling.

“Ah! I had a five year age gap.”

“That sounds nice too.”

And the bank doors finally slid open, and she waved goodbye to the boys and gave me a knowing smile.

And I wonder if one day, I’ll give a young mother like me the same kind of hope.

Hope that the constance of this grind, of this war zone rife with toddler tantrum land mines, this beautiful, amazing, scary yet ultimately awesome time in our lives is worth it.

That we will all survive it.

Because that woman has 11 year old twin boys and she survived. She thrived. She misses them being toddlers.

After the bank I walked the Two home in the pram. Over the bridge where the ducks play, up the hill where the trucks zoom past, and through the rose garden walkway in the park.

And Fraser told me his favourite flowers were the pink roses.

And Oscar told me his were the yellow.

Like mine.

And all of a sudden, for the first time in a long time, I understood what the stranger at the bank meant.

My two and a half year olds will soon be 3, then 4. Time is fleeting, speeding by with the rumble of a semi-trailer.

And wishing away two and a half is a mistake.

Because I will miss it when my children are 11.

What is your favourite colour rose? Do you think you’ll miss two and a half? Do you think you’ll enjoy missing two and a half more than living it?

Daisy Roo and Two

motherhood. crochet. cake.

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Archive / Twins

Pass the paper bag, please…

Researchers have identified poo-flinging as a sign of intelligence…

On nail polish, harvesters and (tentatively) leaping forward.

On banks, rose gardens and moments of clarity.