Finally!

Exactly one week ago I was *supposed* to meet my newborn baby cousins - newborn baby TWINS to be exact.  But then I couldn't, because I was exposed to my  husband mere hours before he started vomiting in manner of The Hulk.

And I don't mind telling you, I was devastated.

Because did I mention? NEWBORN! And also? TWINS! One of which is FOUR MEASLY POUNDS.  Four pounds of baby!  OHMAHGAHHHH. 

So today (after a one week self-imposed quarantine) I finally go to meet them.  When I put the smallest little baby in my arms I just died.  Dead.  Right there.  BECAUSE OMG FOUR POUNDS!  It was like holding a baby squirrel.   The palms of his hands were the size of A NICKEL.  A nickel you guys!  Go dig in your purse and find a nickel.  Now imagine adding fingers the circumference of matchsticks.  That. 

I cannot get over it.

And this is where I would normally post a photo of the nickel-handed baby and his "gigantic" (he's 5lbs) brother.  But alas, there are all sorts of rules when it comes to pre-adoption children - some of which involve privacy.  So? No pictures. 

You know this is killing me, right? 

Instead, I will show you a photo of the gift I brought.  I put together a Newborn Survival Kit.  And since they have twins, I bought two of everything. 

.

What?  Every new parent needs Redbull and chocolate, Vodka and granola bars.  And also tissues for those inevitable breakdown moments when only sobbing will do.

Neighbor Susan says this basket would also be excellent for the mother of a teenager.  Harharhar.

Going to the Chapel

My precious baby step-sister got herself hitched this weekend!  Oh my, I wish you could have been there, the wedding was spectacular.  Every single detail was perfection.

It almost made me want to get married all over again. 

Ok, not really.  We all know planning a wedding is hard damn work.

Disgust

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Look, fine, I phoned it in yesterday with the post about banana peels.  The truth is, nothing AT ALL interesting happened to me.  Nothing.  Nada. Zip.

So I wrote about fruit.

Today, sadly, I'm in the same boat.  I went to Walmart.  And then to Target because Walmart does not sell the specific organic bunny-shaped crackers that my children have grown to love and...

OMG SO BORING.

Nights like tonight I feel I should tell you a story.  You know, dredge something up from the past so that you will feel entertained. Like the story about the time I was forced to bathe in a shower that was so completely moldy that it was SOLID BLACK.  I should tell you that at the time (I was in my early twenties) it was the worst thing that had ever happened to me.  THAT I CRIED ABOUT THE BLACKNESS OF THE MOLD.  That the shower haunted my dreams.  Literally.  I HAD NIGHTMARES.  The slimey-ness! OH!

But now I can't tell the story with all of its details because it just doesn't seem that bad anymore.  The Black Shower Incident happened before I wiped asses for a living.  Before I buried one of my parents.  Before I had to send a child back to surgery.  Before I had to fish a lego out of a toilet with my bare hand.

Somehow letting my feet touch mold just doesn't seem that awful.

Now there *was* that time that I had to sleep in a bed whose sheets were so filthy that there was an faint outline OF A HUMAN on the sheets.  Presumably made of sweat and grease and dirt and dead skin.

*shiver*

Which is why someone should invent a body condom. 

Well!  This has been fun!  Got any disgusting stories of your own?  Go on.  Spill it.

Not Just in Cartoons!

Did you know banana peels really ARE slippery? Like, in real life?

Dude! I had no idea until Dave proved it to us last Sunday.

Next he's going to tell me onions really make you cry.

Armageddon!

So here's what's been going on here - shortly after the Pine Wood Derby on Saturday, Dave commented that his stomach was "a little off".  He decided it was because he'd consumed more than one Dr. Pepper earlier that day.  Which is, you know, utterly ridiculous.  But I didn't tell him that at the time.  I just let him wander around the house holding his stomach and groaning.

And then he vomited up everything he'd eaten since he was twelve. 

Folks, let me just tell you - the man is an aggressive hurler.  There will be no pansy-assed vomiting!  No!  There will be the kind of vomiting that makes you sore for DAYS afterward. Rib-cracking vomiting!  The kind of vomiting that has the children wondering if a monster is downstairs (seriously, they asked).

All that hurling (among other things) meant that Dave was out of commission for the remainder of Saturday as well as all day long Sunday.  Thankfully, he'd *ahem* cleaned out the pipes by midnight Saturday and just needed time to recuperate on Sunday (Hulk-like vomiting requires serious recuperation, don't you know).

And here's where I come in - because I happened to have shared those Dr. Peppers with Dave on Saturday.  Yes!  I drank from the same soda can MERE HOURS before he started the Hulk Hurling.  Which, in my mind, meant that I was surely destined AT ANY MOMENT to begin vomiting myself. I. was. doomed.

Have I mentioned how much I hate throwing up? Although, now that I think about it, does *anyone* enjoy it?  But I would argue that women who've given birth have the added pleasure of peeing their pants WHILE vomiting.  Whee! THAT'S fun right there!

So since I just KNEW I was AT ANY SECOND going to hurl, I decided there would be nothing in the world worse than hurling in a dirty house.  So instead of going to bed on Saturday night, I stayed up UNTIL MIDNIGHT doing laundry and cleaning the kitchen.  You know, just in case.

Oh don't sit there and shake your head at me.  You knew I was crazy before today.

But then I woke up Sunday morning just as healthy as I was the day before.  Only Sunday, I had to set the house on fire bleach the bathrooms to rid them of the vomit, scrub the floors, and wash the full-of-sickness sheets in boiling hot acid.   By the end of the day yesterday, my house was cleaner than it had been in, well, ever.  I'd even cleaned the doorknobs and light switches.  I used so much bleach that my house now glows ever so slightly in the dark.

And I still didnt' get sick.

So today I ran errands like a mad woman.  I stocked up on groceries.  I AM SO READY TO SUCCUMB TO THE VOMITING!  I am so prepared!

Tomorrow I plan on doing situps to strengthen my stomach muscles.  And then maybe I'll do some kegels, you know, for the peeing.

Winner Winner Chicken Dinner

Have you heard of The Pine Wood Derby?  No?  Yeah, I hadn't either until a few weeks ago.  But apparently I was in the minority.  Because anyone who is either a) a boy, or b) the parent of a boy knows that the Boy Scouts have an annual competition wherein they carve a little car out of wood (pine wood, to be exact), and then they race said cars in The Pine Wood Derby.

Doesn't that sound adorable?

I thought it did.  But then I noticed that the competition was run BY MEN.  Men, who love nothing more than a) competing for trophies and b) making up eleventy bajillion rules and regulations for the competition for said trophy.  HOLY COW WITH THE RULES.  The cars not only had to weigh a certain amount (not a drop over 5oz.) but the entrants vehicles had to be subjected TO A WEIGH-IN the night before the race. 

ALL THIS FOR A TOY.  A toy car that "the boy" was supposed to make all by himself.  PEEESHAW!  What it REALLY is, is a chance for all the dads to compete with EACH OTHER while pretending their boys did most of the work.

First, the block of pine had to be cut into the shape of a car.  Easy enough, right?  OHHHH NO, the men from William's little den all went to one man's house - The Man Who Knows The Secret Shape, and HE cut out the cars for the boys.  Then William got to paint his newly shaped block of wood.  And then he painted a racing stripe down the middle.

And that's where William's contribution ended. 

Dave, meanwhile, added a nice shiny coat of poly to the car ("it had to be shiny!"), attached the wheels, ADDED SPECIAL  WEIGHTS to the bottom of the car for maximum velocity, and then? HE PUT GRAPHITE ON THE WHEELS so that they would spin real, real fast.  Oh and he brought the graphite to the race TO REPLENISH after all the competitive heats.

And lest you think my husband is out of control, please know that every single car at that race had The Special Weights and The Special Graphite and The Special Secret Shape.  Well, almost every car.  You could totally pick the boys who live with their mothers.  Because their mothers ACTUALLY LET THE BOYS DO THE WORK.  What the hell is wrong with them?

You guys, it was HILARIOUS to watch these dads lined up next to "the track" holding their breath while their car raced.  HILARIOUS.

And guess what? Dave's William's car WON!  First place in his little den of first graders, and second place OVERALL (beating out much older, more experienced dads boys). 

Dave said he was thinking of taking the trophies to work and putting them on his shelf.

Double Lovable

Oh, Internet, today is a glorious day. 

Here's the deal: My cousin and his wife have been trying to have a baby forEVER.  Ever.  They've tried all the ways you can imagine, and some I bet you can't imagine.  And they've had success a couple of times, followed by agonizing miscarriages. 

It's been heartbreaking to watch.  I get weekly updates from my (favorite - they're no denying it) Aunt Susie, who is my cousin's momma.

Recently, my cousins begain toying with the idea of adoption.  They were fearful, as I imagine most of us would be, of all of the "what-ifs" of adoption.  What if we never get a baby.  What if the adoption process costs a fortune.  What if the birth mother comes back and takes our baby away.

What if what if what if.

And then, as if by "magic" (read: divinity), someone suggested they speak to a certain person.  That certain person put them in touch with an attorney.  The attorney put them in touch with the proper authorities.  It was like a domino effect.  And one-by-one everything fell into place.  Their fears were abated.  They were ready.

This fall they "registered", which means they got themselves approved to adopt (background checks, home visits, interviews with friends and family - I'm sure there's WAY more to it, forgive my ignorance).  Once they'd gone through the process of registration, they were told to ready themselves by preparing a room for a child.  But they were warned that they were not guaranteed a child.  And that if they DID get a child, it could be anywhere from birth to two years old.

The registration part was finalized in the last couple of weeks, and my cousins hunkered down for what was sure to be a long wait.

And here's where it gets crazy.

Monday (THREE DAYS AGO) they got a call.  The department wanted to know if they were ready.  FOR TWINS.

Yes!  Newborn baby twins.  OMG CAN YOU EVEN BELIEVE???

They brought their babies home from the hospital today.  TODAY! THURSDAY!

I'll stop here while you weep and wait for your goosebumps to subside.

Now let's just imagine: Monday morning, they woke up to a "normal day", and by nightfall, they were expecting twins.  They had exactly 60 hours to prepare for their delivery.  Most of us get nine months to prepare for ONE baby.

CAN YOU EVEN IMAGINE?

Tonight, as I type this, they are juggling bottles and formula and diapers and and and....

Oh if you could spare a prayer, may I ask for one tonight?  For their sweet boys who have been placed in their loving arms, and for my cousins - brand new parents.  Oh how I wish I could wrap my arms around their entire house and just hold them.

They don't know it yet, but with parents like that, they're the luckiest babies in the world.