If someone ever asks me how I’ve managed to stay reasonably slim after having three kids and climbing up the 30s ladder, my standard answer is always this:

“There’s never anything left in the house for me to eat.”

There’s a lot of stereotypes about boys that float around out there, and while not all of them are true (a later post), one of them is dead on and that is that they are hungry. All. The. Time.

They seem to have some kind of red alert that goes off if even one tiny corner of their stomachs free up. I picture an instrument in their brains that resembles my gas indicator in my minivan…a warning light turns on within 10 miles of running empty.

They also watch the clock like hawks and seem to be in danger of expiring if 5 minutes pass over the time that they have appointed “feeding time.

But don’t think that their stomachs HAVE to be empty for it to be feeding time.

On Saturday, our family returned from a post soccer game trip to the grocery store, where we’d allowed the boys to choose some donuts to eat when we got home. I was putting the groceries away while they stuffed long johns in their mouths and practically swallowed them whole.

I haven’t had a long john in years. But I know that they are filled with frosting and I could see that they are still about the length of my forearm. Which, for me, anyway would dictate that if one entered my mouth, nothing else would need to probably for the rest of the day.

Not so in the case of my boys. I can’t imagine that Ryan’s donut had even made it past the esophagus stage of digestion before his eyes lit up at the sight of the time…

“Hey! It’s 11:45, it’s almost time for lunch!”

It’s a good thing they have lots of energy…

The girls are asleep.  We sit, snuggling on the couch, the romantic stylings of Jon Stewart surrounding us in a happy glow.  Kurt bends down, a soft smile on his face, and kisses me.  Then, leaning back he says…

“Did you fart?  It smells like farts.”

“NO!  Thanks a LOT! Geez!” I pull away, glaring.

Suddenly defensive, he says, “I don’t know.  I didn’t say YOU smell like farts.  Just, you know, right around you.”

“WHATEVER.  You smell like farts all the time and I don’t say anything.  Probably you smell YOURSELF.”  I stand up and stomp off to the other couch, full of righteous indignation.

Silence. And then…

“It doesn’t smell like farts anymore.  Since you moved, I mean.”

I stare at him, ice dripping off my gaze. 

“I’m just saying.”

If “you-will-never-get-another-chance-to-be-anywhere-close-enough-to-smell-me-again” had a scent, the air between us would have been rich with it.

So, both girls bring spelling lists home every week and we run through the words every night.  This week, both the kinder and 1st grade teachers sent home the exact same bonus word: leprechaun.

LEPRECHAUN!?  My kindergartener doesn’t even have the requisite attention span to string 10 letters together let alone get them in the right order.

Since this is a bonus word, it doesn’t count toward their final score on their Friday test. They could spell “leper’s spawn” and it wouldn’t matter.

Why not have a little fun, right?

Dave has commenced teaching the girls to spell “green elf” instead of ‘leprechaun.’  We’re trying to rope some of the other parents into joining in our mischievous ways…

But knowing our girls, they will diligently spell “leprechaun” tomorrow on their tests, spoiling all our fun.

What good are kids if you can’t use them to needle their teachers now and then???

In this economy, everyone I know is cutting back. We are no exception.  Still, we are healthy and we have a home. We are lucky.

As we’re making decisions to cut back, I’m struck over and over…

(MA! has partnered with The Bump!  About twice a month, you’ll be able to jump to their site to read my words. Just click on their logo!)

My girls are 3 today. Three. 3. How did that happen?

Although they are years beyond their age in their actions, moods and behavior, it still doesn’t seem like they have been a part of my life for 3 whole years.

Just because I’m feeling a little sappy and nostalgic, I’ll rewind time and share the story of the girls’ birth.

I had a very normal pregnancy. According to my doctor I was “built” to carry multiples. He was always commenting on my long torso, deep pelvis and wide hips… thanks Doc! I never got sick, actually I felt better pregnant than I did normally. I felt great until right around the 34 week mark. Something snapped inside of me. I needed to be DONE! I needed them out, not now… right now! I cried to the doctor each week, begging him to put me out of my misery. He finally gave in, and induced me at 37 weeks. Praise the lord! My belly was measuring 52cm at that point. If you’ve ever been 52 weeks pregnant, then you know what I was going through… if not, then you had better not have commented!! I was uncomfortable and evil.

The induction was scheduled for 2pm on March 16, 2006. I went in not knowing what to expect, but I knew 2 things… I was not going to have an epidural, and I was not going to let anyone know how much pain I was in.

They started the induction meds, and we waited. By midnight, the fun and games were over. I had gotten back in bed and laid there silently suffering. I closed my eyes, breathed through each contraction and prayed for it to be over. By sun up, the contractions were back to back, I couldn’t tell when one stopped and another on started. Still, I was determined not to make a sound. That is the thing I am most proud of. I was silent and in control the entire time. I never let out a sound.

The doctor came in to check me at about 6am. I was only 4cm dilated. I felt defeated. I was exhausted and feeling hopeless. He offered me pain meds, but I refused. He then suggested an epidural. I refused. My mother and the nurse were hovering over me trying to coax me into having the epidural. I looked to Aaron, for some sort of encouragement. We had talked about this, he knew what I wanted. But he sat there looking like a kindergartner on his first day of school… clueless! A few minutes later, the doctor came back in and mentioned casually, that he normally suggests the epidural with twins, because once the first baby comes out, there was a good chance the second baby would turn around and no longer be head down. He went on to say, that in those cases he has to reach in and turn the baby around. He gestured in this big dramatic way, showing how he’d plunge his arm into my body, feel around, then pull the baby back out. My eyes nearly fell out of my head.  “I’ll take the epi STAT!”

So there I was, mostly numb (it didn’t quite take, but I was fine with that), and just waiting. I slept for a couple of hours, and woke up feeling recharged. At about 8am, the nurse asked how I was feeling. I was great, but had a little pressure down below. A good sign, she said. The doctor came in and asks the same thing, I gave the same answer. “You’re making progress, keep it up!” Not too long after, the mid-wife who assists the doctors in twin deliveries, came in to introduce herself. I told her that I was having lots of pressure, and suggested that maybe someone should check me. She had barely started the exam, when her eyes widened, she said I was at 10cm and Baby A was right there!

After that, there was a furry of activity. There were 2 nurses, a doctor, a mid-wife, an ultra-sound technician, and a few other people scurrying around. It was party time! It was at that moment that I realized that I didn’t know how to push! It never occurred to me before, but I figured that if I faked it good enough, no one would know. So with my feet up in the stirrups, and everyone huddled around, I grabbed the back of my knees, put on my ugliest face and pushed like I had seen women do on TV!

Five or 6 pushes later, at exactly 8:47am, Saniya Dolce was born, weighing 5lbs 5oz. She came out kicking and screaming, and looked like a little bird. She was perfect. I was pumped up, my adrenaline was flowing and I was ready to have another baby! The doctor checked me and said it would be a while. But I was still having contractions, and wasnt about to waste an opportunity to move things along.

I pushed 3 times, through one contraction, and Saadia Monet was born at 9:01. She was just as feisty as her sister, and slightly bigger at 5lbs 8oz. She was a perfect little thing, giant head and all!

I lost some blood, and they both had issues nursing, but all in all, I couldn’t have asked for a better experience. Not everything went according to plan, but the outcome was greater than I ever imagined. I was, and still am blessed.

Happy Birthday Girls.