Playing Defense

I play defense all day long. If the kids are awake, I'm on high alert. I have to protect them from doing anything to harm themselves and each other. You know what is referred to as "common sense"? There is no such thing. Because you are born with very little sense and parents teach kids everything they know. Seriously, they're like feral animals you're trying to tame and talk some sense into.

If I could only use 10 words in a day, I'd need these:

No.
Stop.
Don't eat that.
For the love of God.

It's not easy because they totally gang up on me. One distracts me while the other is getting into something completely dangerous. Like Avery will be getting out the front door and at the opposite side of the house Owen is splashing in the dog dish. Or Owen's doing flips off the couch while Avery is stripping down to her birthday suit. Or Avery is grabbing a bag of chips off the counter while Owen is pouring my coffee all over the house.

Because this seems like an excellent idea.

The other day, Avery let me know Owen was waving his giraffe lovey around. I thought it was an odd report, but I was trying to get dressed like a normal human being that day, a day I put on a belt for the first time in like, two years (seriously, it had a tag on it, and I don't remember purchasing it). Next thing I know, Avery is telling me, "But the giraffe is wet," and I find Owen dunking the giraffe in the toilet and flinging water all over kingdom come. That's what I get for putting on a belt, people.

I'm so busy lately; I took on another writing job, so I'm writing an additional three articles a week with I don't know what time. I'm getting things figured out, but it's been a lot of juggling and stress. Around our neighborhood we do this "Boo" chain thing at Halloween where you'll get treats from someone and have to put together goodies to pass it along. Well, for the past two years I've gotten Booed, but hadn't passed the torch on. In fact, last year I got Booed twice, the second time before I had the chance to put up the "We've been Boo-ed!" sign. So I've felt super guilty. So this year? I Booed myself. That's right: I printed off a Boo ghost from the internet and stuck it up preemptively, so as to not get a bag of treats and to save myself the guilt of not having the time to do a Boo basket for someone else. Some may think it's slightly Grinchy of me; I think it's genius.

We've been going to the gym a lot, and now that Owen is great at the child care center, it's actually hard to tear them both away from all of the toys. I use the gym for both working out and for a quiet moment to work in the café, so it's been nice. We always hit the potty when I drop them off, and for whatever reason, Avery was terrified of the toilet the other day. So she kept getting off, I kept putting her back on and explaining that these aren't automatic toilets, while Owen ran amok in the bathroom. Guess where you don't want a 20-month-old running amok? A bathroom. So I'm chasing Owen, putting Avery on the pot, back and forth, back and forth. Then we have to switch stalls because, 3-year-old. Then Owen's crawling out of the stall, and into another stall. By the time I get out of there I a) don't feel guilty at all about leaving them for an hour and b) am already warmed up for my workout.

Look closely and you'll see this is the first day of the season they wore pants.

Owen is now at a stage where he thinks it is hilarious to run from me. One of the few times I remember getting in trouble as a kid was when I was running away from my mom. We were fishing or outside, and I'm pretty sure I got a swat on the butt. Now I see why: Because it is the most annoying thing when your kid is running away from you because they're likely running directly into danger or an otherwise inappropriate situation. The kids conspire against me so that I look like a totally crazy person on the way out of the gym sometimes. Avery will be running off or heading into an open office door, while Owen is heading into the men's locker room. Twice I've had to retrieve Owen from the men's locker room, and twice I've felt like I should have shielded my eyes just in case. He gets a little faster and turns a corner, and I'm going to have to yell for everyone to take cover while I go grab him.

The only place he plays it safe: the slide.

The mission right now for both kids is to touch everything, climb everything, and destroy everything. If I'm being driven batty by the amount of laundry needing to be put away, I know I have to sacrifice something to get it done. If I block them from our bedroom, it's a guarantee that every book will be on the floor in Avery's room, every blanket will be off Avery's bed, and they'll be in Owen's closet, unfolding every piece of clothing that is out of season.

He'll either sit in it or throw folded clothes. Either way, I lose.

If I make it sound like they're heathens, it's because they are. But not all the time. They do have their delightful moments. The moments that have me doubled over because they say something funny or melt my heart because they do something totally cute. Those moments make up for toilet splashing and throwing rocks at bunnies.

 

Adorably checking out bunnies. And then Avery threw rocks. You thought I was kidding about throwing rocks at bunnies.

Can I also just say that the Terrible Twos are a joke? I scoff at the Terrible Twos. Parents keep three a secret because they don't want to scare the pee out of you as you're dealing with the "Terrible Twos." They don't want to say, "Oh, boy, you think 2 is bad? You are IN FOR IT, SISTER." Because three is a whole other ballgame. Three is opinions and language and love and hugs. But three is opinions and language and attitude and make-you-wanna-do-drugs. You'll get "I love you soooo much" followed by "You're a stupid Mommy."

She'll put a hex on you if you're not careful.

Three brings so much goofiness.

Goofball.

...but also EMOTIONS.


Post-nap, feeling all the feelings.

Another mom recently said that at this age it's like they walk around as one big raw nerve, and it's so true. You just don't know what will trigger the crazy.

Luckily for both of them, they're pretty cute. And we love them to bits. And well, there's just no sending them back.

Happy Halloween!

It has been decided that there is nothing cuter than a preschool Halloween program. Look for the Dalmatian.