Hair today, gone tomorrow

Yesterday I did something awful. The twins and I were having such a good day: We went grocery shopping, watched a movie, went for a walk around the lake, rode their tricycles in the backyard . . . And that's when the tide changed. We were outside playing when I noticed how long their hair had gotten. It was so long, in fact, that Dylan's hair was covering his ears like little muffs, and Kyle's was draped down over his eyes. It seemed like the perfect time to give them haircuts. They were getting pretty dirty and would need a bath soon anyway. I ran inside to grab a comb and some scissors. I thought, 'I'll just give them a little trim.'

I have a vision now of Kyle in therapy sessions.

Dylan wouldn't let me touch him. Kyle, on the other hand, is a good little boy who does basically everything his mommy tells him. He sat very still and let me completely destroy his hair. Too much on this side, too much on that side, and too many attempts to even it all out . . . Oy vey!

Future Kyle: "I always wanted to please my mother. Once, when I was two, she butchered my hair, and I just sat there and let her do it. I just wanted to please her. I wanted her to be happy."

I swear I will never ever cut my children's hair. Ever.

Speaking of hair, when I got home from a glorious day of chit-chat and vegging with Sadie, Michael greeted me at the door with a shaved head. "I'm bald," he announced.

About once every two months, Michael re-realizes that he is going bald. He keeps trying to justify his abnormal hair growth (or lack thereof): "These hairs grow this way, and those hairs grow that way, and I have this empty spot here," he tells me. Yeah, it's called a BALD spot.

What cracks me up is that I have known Michael was balding since our very first date. I also knew he was a bit on the short side (something he "confessed" to me on our second or third date) and that his tummy was, well, being sucked in. None of these things bothered me at all - not even for a second.

The only thing about Michael's appearance that worried me was that he was wearing white socks with his brown sandals on our first date. Occassionally, I have to remind him of this, and, more importantly, that I chose to go out with him again after that!

Waiting for Godiva

Last week Michael and I were watching The Office, and it was Valentine's Day at Dunder Mifflin. Poor Pam had to keep receiving gifts for Phyllis, and nothing ever came for her. I thought, 'Oh boy, this is going to be me on Valentine's Day.' Michael and I even talked about it, and by the end of the conversation, I was expecting my man to pull through. I even enlisted the help of Joe to guide my husband; although, I'm doubtful Joe came through for me because today Michael called me at work and said, "Did you know you can't order flowers on Valentine's Day? It's too late!" Yeah hun, I knew that . . . (Joe, you owe me something pink, red, fuzzy or chocolatey)

My afternoon was filled with phone call after phone call from Michael:
M - "Did you get my thing?"
J - "No, what thing?"
M - "Hmm . . . OK . . . bye"

M - "Did you get it?"
J - "No"
M - "WHAT?!"
J - "I gotta go . . . bye!"

M - "Did you get my card yet?"
J - "Card?"
M - "Check your e-mail"
J - "It's not here"
M - "Check your Cox account"
J - "It's not there"
M - "WHAT?! Bye."

You can see how in the beginning I thought I was going to actually get something. It wasn't until late in the afternoon that I realized I was waiting all day long for an e-card. I left work at 5:15 PM, e-cardless.

Later that evening when Michael was changing the twins, I went to the computer to check one last time. Sitting in my inbox were three messages, all the same:

My husband is a dufus, but I love him. Four years ago today I was sick as a dog, and he made me his "famous" spaghetti dinner (which involves undercooked pasta and Ragu spaghetti sauce). Two days later he proposed to me in front of my entire family while we were visiting them in California.

You just can't get better than that. It's not fancy, but it's real, and it's sincere.

P.S. No one else in my office received any deliveries today either . . . But Sarah got gorgeous saphirre and diamond earrings from her long distance beau . . . And Stephanie was going to dinner with her fiance . . . And Amy's husband is a pilot and was out of town . . . And Sara and Joe were out of the office (This duo could have dramatically changed the atmosphere today - Sara's husband Ira is the flower-giving type and Joe's in a brand new, lovey-dovey relationship).

Mine! Mine!

According to an article on Parentbytes.com, "Territorial and possessiveness are common behaviours for two year olds."

This is something I was aware of before I had babies, it was something everyone told me would happen when I actually did have babies, and it's something I am experiencing now.

I felt better when I read this: "If your child is reasonably good at sharing by the time they are five, then you are doing well."

Oh good, only 3 more years of this.

You see, Kyle and Dylan will pick 1 item during a paricular period of time, and all I hear is "MINE! MINE! MINE!" It's like watching parts of Finding Nemo in surround sound.

Two nights ago, this two-year-old behavior far surpassed any of my expectations. I was fast asleep, and all of a sudden I heard Kyle screaming. This is not entirely a strange occurance. He often has little night tremors that don't even wake him up. He'll scream, roll over, and go back to sleep. However, on this particular evening, his dream was so vivid that he kept screaming and screaming until I went to his side and rubbed his back and smoothed his hair. He never woke up, just relaxed and quieted. Here's what he was screaming: "MINE! My ball! No! No! No! MINE! My ball!"

My kids are fighting in their sleep.

This wasn't just a one-time occurance that evening. He actually got up 3 hours later at 2:45 AM and 3 hours after that at 5:45 AM (that did it--he was up for the day after that).

The culprit? My mother's giant exercise ball. Dylan found it in her closet earlier that evening, and both he and Kyle were entranced. They had never seen a ball that big before. I mean, they call their little soccer ball "big ball!" Apparently, Kyle was so entranced by the ball that he dreamt about it. Well, not about "it," but about Dylan taking it away from him.

I also just want to add that during these evening festivities, Michael did not stir. Not once. I wonder if there's a webpage for that . . .

Weird things the twins really enjoy

Dylan and Kyle have such goofy senses of humor. I'm not sure if this stuff is normal for two-year-olds, but it just cracks me up. Maybe I can work as a comedian for toddlers. I'd travel from day care to day care, spreading joy and laughter. Here are some of my best bits:

I say "ring! ring!" and then put one of their feet to my ear and say "hello?" They think this is hysterical.

They love the whole "this little piggy" bit. Really. I mean, I did it to Dylan's left foot today, and when I was done he shoved his right foot in my face and said "other foot!" Then Kyle put his feet in my face and said "more! Kai-Kai feet! more!"

When I take off their socks, I always smell their feet and say, "EEW! Stinky feet!" and make a grossed-out face. Sometimes their feet really do smell (especially Dylan, WHEW!). They laugh and laugh . . . I'm now having visions of farting contests between Michael, Dylan and Kyle.

(Noticing a trend? They seem to have a thing about feet . . . )

I wander around the kitchen, looking in cupboards and drawers and pretend to be looking for one of them. "Kyle? Kyle? Where are you?" "Dylan?" Are you in here?" They giggle hysterically in the middle of the room with their hands covering their eyes. They think they're fooling me. It's great.

Occasionally, I ask Kyle, "Does Daddy need his diaper changed?" He'll look at me kind of funny, then waddle (yeah, it's definitely a waddle) over to Michael, then look at me again, then try to tug at Michael's waistband, then look at me and grin as if to say, "Aw, Mom! You got me again!"

More Nemo! More Nemo!

Last night we took the boys to Disney on Ice: Finding Nemo. The evening started out a bit rough as we attempted to grab a bite to eat beforehand, and didn't anticipate the slow service nor the torpidity of Grandma and her beau (which was clearly our fault, for senior citizens don't move faster as they age, and Grandma has been a senior citizen for a long time).

We ended up making it to the arena with ten minutes to spare, and luckily it wasn't too crowded. I mean, who in their right mind would bring children to a 7:30 PM performance? Uh, yeah. That would be us . . . In our defense, it was the only possible time for all of us (me, Michael, Mom, David--Grandma and Seymour just need 24 hours notice, and then they are good to go).

Every few yards there was another kiosk set up with every kind of Finding Nemo thing you could possibly want. The first time Kyle saw something Nemo-ish, he pointed and shouted, "Nemo! Nemo!" Three yards later, "More Nemo! More Nemo!" Three yards later, "More Nemo! More Nemo!" I cannot describe the excitement in his voice, but it is a sound I will remember for a very long time.

When we entered the main part of the area and headed to our seats, both boys got a little freaky. Dylan wanted to run around, and Kyle was gripping Mom and kept repeating, "Scared, Scared!" But once the show started, they were in heaven. Dylan was so mesmerzed, he didn't even notice that his papa was right there. He sat on my lap without moving throughout the entire first act. Kyle was WAY into the show. Anytime there was music, he started dancing. Now, try to imagine he's sitting on my mom's lap, kicking both legs forward at the same time and punching his arms out (with his hands in fists) as if he is rowing a boat as fast as he can. Oh, and there is a big (no, huge!) smile on his face. It was great.

Again, a wonderful experience that they will probably not remember, but I will never forget.

Blasphemy on the Highway

Yesterday was a long day that involved many hours in traffic. Thank goodness Sara, Joe and I had each other. When my iPod battery ran out of juice, we switched the radio onto NPR (Correction: Joe put it on KFYI and I changed it to KJZZ). We sat and listened to the reports regarding the Hamas victory in Palestine.

We were quiet for a while and then tried to "fix" the problem. Isn't there a way they can all just get along? Maybe not. This thought did not improve the mood. You see, the three of us are kind of the types of people who look at a problem and come up with a solution. It might be a very complicated solution that involves a lot of compromise, but there's always got to be a way to fix the situation. Twenty-something optimists, right?

Finally, my thoughts became so heavy and we were about to reach our destination. In an effort to lighten the mood I offered this suggestion:

Well, maybe we'll have Christ's second-coming and all of the Christians would be happy, return to God and leave everyone else behind. Then, the Palestines and the Israelis could have all the land they wanted!

OK, OK, so it doesn't completely help because everyone wants the HOLY land, which is on one location. Joe suggested that the holy land be reallocated. You guys have this part of the world, you over there have that part of the world, etc.

In any event, something's got to change. Right?

They Lost

So, the Broncos lost. Michael was devastated. I got home from the theatre this evening and asked him, "Is there anything I can do to cheer you up?"

He smiled, took my hand, and said, "I was hoping you and I could watch the documentary one of my football players made about the season. It's called The Road to State."

We watched an hour and forty-five minute documentary about high school football. And he was happy.

Cheez-its, Crush, tangerines, cheese . . . Blueberries?

About roughly four years ago, I told Michael that when the Broncos make it to the Superbowl I would throw him a superball party and all of the food and beverage would be orange and blue. At the time, I thought I had come up with a wonderfully creative idea. Now I am starting to worry. You see, every football season, the playoffs come and go, and Denver really hasn't been that close - Expect for the year the twins were born, and if the Broncos had gone to the Superbowl nobody would have expected me to start planning a party. This time two years ago I could barely walk and my mother-in-law was bringing hungry babies to my bedroom so I could play Bessie-the-cow.

The Broncos play on Sunday. If my calculations are correct, if they win this Sunday then they're going to the Superbowl. If they win this Sunday, I'm going to have to throw a Broncos party where every item of food and drink is orange or blue. I could totally bail out of it, being that our house is on the market and Michael knows I really don't need the added stress of a party (I had to apologize to my family on the day of the twins' birthday party for being what I can only describe as "a total freak"). The thing is, despite the added stress, I really want to have this party for him. What if, in our lifetime, the Broncos never go to the Superbowl again?

Orange and blue food . . . Suggestions, anyone?

My house talks, does yours?

Well, our house is officially on the market. Any takers? Yesterday we worked tooth and nail (Where does that phrase come from, anyway?) to get the house ready to be shown. Everything has its own "show" place, including the twins' toys. Michael worked his tushee off and then announced that I was not allowed to cook anything and that we would only be using paper plates. I wonder how long we can eat cold sandwiches before he asks me for spaghetti and meatballs?

One of the cool things we're doing is called the Talking House. When you drive up to the front of our house, a sign tells you to tune to channel 1610 AM (Don't try it now - You have to be right in front of the house for it to work). It's a pretty nifty idea, especially since our HOA doesn't allow us to distribute flyers (and let's face it, the flyers just get picked up by the neighbors anyway). So, when you tune into our special Talking House program, you get to hear my lovely voice tell you all about the property for 3 minutes, and then it repeats itself. I had such a blast writing a script. My favorite line is, "Improve your game on your very own putting green, or relax and enjoy mountain views from your personal balcony." That's marketing, baby!

The house really does look phenomenal, and I'm enjoying the tidiness, but I hope it sells sooner rather than later. Or, at least until I start craving some home-cooked meals.

My Boogins

It's 8:30 PM. The boys have been fed, bathed and are sleeping. Michael and I have eaten, cleaned the kitchen and I was feeling dangerous enough to clean the bathroom. Ahh . . . time to relax. So, I turn on the computer to check my e-mail and see if good old Joe has written anything in his blog as of late. He has.

Now, it's not what Joe wrote about that had me laughing hysterically - It's the picture of the cat (I just clicked back to his page to look at it again and laugh). I don't know what makes this picture so funny to me, but I'm seriously near tears even as I am writing this now.

I'm getting such enjoyment out of this (I'm remembering now that I had to wake up at 4:45 this morning to take one of our actors to a radio station), that I'm feeling inspired to share the most enjoyable characteristics of my favorite feline, Daisy (aka Daisy-the-Baggins-Spencer; aka Boogins; aka Daisy-Face).

• Daisy is a social eater. She could have just eaten a whole bowl of food, but when we're eating at the kitchen table, she immediately heads toward her bowl. Even if she's eaten all of her dinner already, we will give her a couple of bites so she can eat with the family.

• Daisy loves to have her belly rubbed and her armpits scratched. OK dog owners, I know this doesn's sound like a big deal, but most cats will hiss, scratch, bite or run away when you try to touch these parts.

• Daisy has to be in the same room as us. If Michael is upstairs and I am downstairs, she will sit on the middle of the staircase so she can see both of us.

• Daisy always knows when someone is napping. She has this weird cat-sensor that seems to notify her if you have decided to lie down, and she will immediately join you. This is most impressive when she is sleeping under the bed and Michael falls asleep on the couch upstairs.

• Daisy can sit on the bathroom counter all day long, waiting for a drop of water to escape from the tap. Every once in a while, she'll lick the dry tap, just in case something is on its way out. This is most perplexing to us as she has her own special kitty water cooler in the kitchen. Also perplexing is the fact that she only started doing this about a year ago.

• Daisy will let Kyle and Dylan put their head on her belly like a pillow; brush her with the wrong side of her brush; and attempt to feed her treats or pieces of her food, only to pull their hands away when her mouth touches their fingers.

(I just looked back at the cat picture again . . . Seriously, my stomach is hurting from laughing!)

• When I adopted Daisy, the rescue organization had named her "Cuddles," which I immediately changed because a) I think it's very important to give animals "people" names and b) at the time I was very much into naming plants and animals after literary figures - An increasingly difficult feat as some of my favorite literary figures die tragically (oh, poor Phineas the goldfish . . . If you don't understand, read A Separate Peace. Actually, if you haven't read A Separate Peace, you should). Anyway, the rescuers weren't kidding when they named her "Cuddles" because she is a very cuddly cat. P.S. One day I will have a male cat named Gatsby . . . Oh shit! He died tragically too. Man!

OK, I'm thinking sad thoughts now about a future, non-existent cat dying so you know what I have to do? That's right, look at the cat picture again.

My Odd Couple

When I think ahead to the future, I can picture the twins' bedroom: One side is completely disheveled with clothes strewn about on the floor, empty cups littering the furniture, blankets balled up on the bed . . . The other side is immaculate.

Of all of the gifts received on Christmas and Chanukah, Kyle has shown the most interest in his child-sized cleaning supplies. He loves to take his broom and sweep, sweep, sweep the kitchen floor alongside me. His sweeps may be less stroke-like and more like banging the broom on the floor, but you've got to give him credit for his effort.

This evening while I was making dinner and chatting on the phone, the boys were busying themselves with taking pieces of food out of Daisy's bowl and bringing them to her mouth (Daisy has got to be the most patient and tolerant cat in the world. How on Earth did we luck out with her?).

I went to check on them, and apparently they had scattered bits of Daisy's food on the carpet, and Kyle was attempting to vaccuum the food up with his toy Dirt Devil. I was happy to see him trying to clean up the mess, but there's no doubt in my mind that Kyle had purposely scattered food about so he could clean it (Over the weekend I caught him wandering around, spilling his milk onto the kitchen floor and wiping the floor clean with a towel).

Now I've got to plan their second birthday party, and here's what I'm thinking: I'll give Dylan a bunch of paper that he can rip up and scatter around the house, and I'll give Kyle a trash can so he can throw it all away . . . Or maybe a bucket with some sponges and a pair of rubber gloves . . . Or a feather duster . . . A toilet brush?

Ranting For Love

OK, it's soapbox time.

Right now my mother-in-law is in the emergency room waiting for a bed in ICU because she may have bronchial pneumonia. What started out as a "cold" on Christmas worsened, and she didn't go see a doctor.

About a month ago, Michael and I were in the emergency room because he was having intense headache pain that ended up being caused by a neglected sinus infection.

Noticing a trend? If there is one thing I inherited from my father (because this is definitely a Spinner trait and not a Meronoff trait), it is GO TO THE DOCTOR IF YOU ARE SICK - Especially if you are sick and then it gets WORSE.

I've been trying to understand why people don't go to the doctor when they are sick. Perhaps they are afraid of what they might discover. Perhaps they are lazy or simply won't make the time to take care of themselves because they are too busy "living" (I use quotes because, really, how well can you live when you are ill?). Maybe they think they've been down this road so many times that they think they know what they need to get better (A total disregard of the concept of progress - anitbiotics that worked for you 5 or 10 years ago may now be outdated. You wouldn't still put leeches on your body and bleed the problem out, would you?).

I'm sure it's a combination of many of these issues, and I know I am being completely judgemental right now, but I just hate to see people that I care about going through what could have been prevented.

So please, read my rantings as an act of love.

Organized Chaos

Our office at ATC usually falls into that oxymoronic category of "organized chaos." Things may look completely uprooted and insane, but there tends to be a method to all the madness, and in the end we make things work.

Today I had to set up the lobby at the Herberger Theater Center. We don't own the space, so whenever we are performing a show there we "brand" the lobby with all things ATC so our patrons will know they are at an ATC show. Setting up the lobby isn't very difficult, but I had to do it myself this time since Heather is gone and Joe is on vacation.

So, there I am, doing the manual labor part of my job when I realize that I have brought the wrong easels with me. ARG. Now I have to go back to the office and get the right easels--which is baffling me as I'm driving because I don't remember seeing any other easels. Sure enough, I get back to the office, and I cannot find the easels anywhere. I've now enlisted the help of Sara, and the two of us are hunting around the marketing office, looking for black easels that (and now I remember) should be in skinny white and orange boxes. Our conversation goes something like this:

Sara: Are you sure they're in here?
Me: Yes. Heather and I brought them in here when we broke down the lobby for Bad Dates.
Sara: Where did you put them?
Me: Right here (I'm on my hands and knees) by Joe's desk.
Sara: Could they be downstairs?
Me: I don't see why. This doesn't make any sense. They are always right here by Joe's desk.
Sara: Can you text him (meaning Joe)?
Me: No. His phone won't work. I think I'm going to have to call Jonathan (Now realizing I don't even have Jonathan's number, just a head's up from Joe that I might be texted by him through Jonathan's phone).
Sara: Who's Jonathan?
Blah . . . Blah . . . Blah . . . Explain to Sara who Jonathan is . . .
Me: Joe cleaned up before he left . . . Where would he have put the easels?
Sara: Yeah, this is the cleanest I've ever seen this place.
Me: Unless he put them in the closet (open closet door)
Sara: And there they are!
Me: Right where they should be all the time, instead of on the floor near Joe's desk.

The beauty is, no one who attends Hank Williams: Lost Highway at the Herberger Theater Center will know about my messy office. They'll just see beautiful photographs displayed on easels.

Mashed Potato Madness

My children are quite unpredictable when it comes to meal time. If they're hungry, they'll eat. If there's something more exciting going on, food may be the farthest thing from their minds. As a rule, Kyle tends to be what people would call a "better eater" than Dylan. Kyle will actually try things that you offer him, while Dylan tends to stick to the familiar: bananas, bread, PB&J and pasta. Sometimes he'll surprise us, but I don't expect to see him chowing down on a stalk of asparagus anytime soon (unless, perhaps, he's dipping it in barbecue sauce).

Last night we celebrated Chanukah. My mom made a wonderful meal, and we were all gathered around the dining room table enjoying our roast beef, latkes, kugel and other yummy dishes. Kyle was doing a pretty good job with his latke and apple sauce (until he was full and then proceeded to smoosh his leftover piece of latke into the small crevice in his high chair tray--a signature move). Dylan was absolutely refusing to sit in his chair, so he climbed up on his papa's lap and was stabbing away at David's plate with his own fork. One thing my boys will do when they get tired of eating themselves is feed others. Dylan started out by offering David small bites of cranberry sauce and green beens with his Donald Duck fork; however, he had some difficulty when he got to the mashed potatoes. Fingers worked so much better. Within minutes, Dylan was grabbing fistfuls of mashed potatoes and shoving them into David's mouth (who was such a good sport, I might add). Dylan wasn't trying to be silly or messy--he was in the zone. His goal was to feed his papa, and if that meant grabbing fistfuls of mashed potatoes and feeding him that way, that was how it was going to be!

Although this sort of activity isn't a normal occurance for us, the chaos of mealtime is something I believe we will be experiencing for a while. It will get better when they're three, right? Four?

An Evening of Silliness

I believe it is official. The worst pick-up line EVER was uttered at Rosie McCaffrey's Pub last night: "So, did you order food here? [Yes] So, did it take a real long time? [No, not really]." You would think that would be the end of the conversation, but then came the lingering awkwardness, limp hand-shake and I couldn't hold back my giggles. Thankfully, Joe arrived to talk about adventures in the bathroom, and the poor, poor man was gone . . .

I had such an amazing time last night (of course, all under horrible circumstances since one of my favorite people is leaving ATC). I believe the evening's moment to be treasured was when a stretch race-car/limo pulled up and a crowd of drunken and happy men poured out (bachelor party, perhaps?) of it. As we were all admiring this very interesting vehicle, I saw that Joe actually reached into an open window of the car, stole a beer (Michelob Ultra, I think), put it in his pocket, took it to our next destination, and then drank it. Hmmm . . . Maybe it doesn't sound as funny or exciting now, but last night . . . . No, it does still sound funny.

I feel so grateful to have such amazing people in my life. We often face some very stressful times, but our camaraderie makes whatever sacrifice we have to make so very worth it.

Dental Hygiene Enigma

At some point yesterday, UPS delivered a small box to our house. This is not an unusual occurrence around this time of year; however, when Michael opened the box (expecting to find goodies of some sort) he discovered 72 tubes of trial-sized toothpaste (all Crest). Strange, right?

Even more odd, the box was sent to "JMKD Productions," a title Michael once used as a signature on a home video of the boys' first year. Also listed was a phone number to our supposed office (Proctor & Gamble apparently think JMKD Productions is a dental office as the box also included the following message: "Thank you for recommending Crest to your patients"). I called the phone number and received an error-type of message.

Since I have no idea as to WHY this box arrived at our doorstep, I will contemplate WHAT to do with 72 tubes of trial-size toothpaste (oops, I mean 71--Michael wanted to use one of them last night, just for fun).

• Insert ornament holders into the bottoms and decorate the Christmas tree
• Discreetly place them on co-workers desks
• Attach them to the tops of holiday gifts
• Develop my own line of practical jewelry
• Be "that house" and pass them out on Halloween
• Empty all of the toothpaste into a plastic container and then just dip my toothbrush in whenever I need toothpaste
• Donate them to the local food bank?
• Generate an additional income by selling them at a cheaper price than the supermarkets
• Use 1 a day for 71 days until I develop OCD habits and need to seek therapy
• Take the delivery as a message from God that I am 4 MONTHS OVERDUE for my dental check-up and need to call immediately to make an appointment!

You know you're at Disneyland with the Spencer twins if . . .

Dylan is attached to his papa's shoulders.

When any major piece of machinery zooms by (ie, train, people mover, rollercoaster, etc), Kyle shouts, "Toot-toot!"

Dylan is climbing up a strange lady's leg, trying to get her balloon.

Kyle is in a great mood, doing his screaming schtick which sounds like a loud, high-pitched bark that lasts for several moments at a time.

Dylan is climbing into a strange child's stroller, trying to get his balloon.

Kyle is falling and getting a boo-boo on his (insert body part; ie, head, finger, toe, etc).

Dylan is drinking his papa's beer (Bad Papa).

Kyle is saying "whee!," even if a look of complete fear is on his face.

Dylan and Kyle go on more rides than their daddy, who is afraid of anything that moves up and down or round and round.

My Guide

Over the past few days I've been feeling this strange sort of pain in what I can only describe as being in my soul . At first I thought I was having anxiety about selling our house or our upcoming move (Which would be well justified)--maybe there was a little bit of that, but Michael and I talked through everything, and I felt better . . . kind of.

Then I started craving (This probably isn't the right word, but I truly cannot think of a more appropriate verb) strange things like specific songs (By bands I never listen to, of which I don't even own a single piece of music) and then certain smells . . . It's just been so odd.

Today I was playing with the twins and Kyle had this look on his face, and there he was--It was my brother Kevin. And then everything made perfect sense. I've been missing Kevin so much lately, and the knawing feeling I'd been having intensified at this realization. Let's be clear: I always miss my brother. Not a day goes by that I don't think about him in some random way or another, but it's really never a sad feeling. It's more like I'll see something funny that reminds me of him, or he'll just enter my thoughts and kind of hang out for a while. And it's never heavy or depressing or painful.

I think there are two main reasons why I've been struck with these pangs lately:

First, Dylan and Kyle are not really babies anymore. They're becoming little boys, and their features are changing. Everyone knows that Dylan is the spitting image of me (With Michael's chin and possibly his nose--let's hope!), and lately Kyle is a perfect blend of Michael and Kevin. Put some curl in Kyle's hair, and there you go! They're starting to act like little boys, too. When Dylan does something goofy or deviously destructive, I think of Kevin (Like the time he sawed off the wooden handles of two hammers to make nunchucks). Or when Kyle does something really sweet and cute like "oohing" and "ahhing" over new clothes or rubbing soft fabrics on his face, I think of Kevin (Was there ever a more tactile kid? He used to bury his face in clothes at department stores).

Second, as my children get older, they begin to understand the world around them and become more familiar with the people in it. I know that one day I'm going to have to talk to them about Kevin, and I just don't know how to do that. I know what I would say to them if they were much older and could understand more, but how do I begin to talk to them about this as toddlers or as preschoolers? I'm just putting it all off until one day they look at one of the many pictures my family has of him, and they'll ask me--I know they will--who he is.

And the calm wave that is rushing over me right now assures me that when that time comes, Kevin will be there to guide me.

Not your typical Yoplait commercial

Lately, dinnertime at the Spencer house leaves our kitchen looking more like a zoo than anything else. I always knew the stereotypical image of a toddler sitting in his or her highchair with food everywhere, but for some reason I guess I thought my twin toddlers would be exempt. Ah, the good old days when I could believe my own lies . . .

Last night all four of us were actually together for a meal. As I was preparing the side dishes for our "adult" dinner, Michael was attempting to get some food in the boys: meatballs, bananas, bread . . . then the magical winner, yogurt (or as Dylan calls it, "yoshow!"). Finally they were interested in eating something, so we dished out the yogurt into two small bowls and handed them their spoons. They're not exactly pros at feeding themselves yet, but they refuse to let us feed them. Sometimes, when they're trying to feed themselves, we can shove a few spoonfuls into their mouths without them really realizing it. Ah, victory.

So last night they're dipping away into their yogurt, and Kyle is absolutely covered with blackberry yogurt. He has purple gunk EVERYWHERE. It's in his hair, in his ear and smeared across his face. It's covering his mouth and chin like a yogurt goatee. All of a sudden, he happens to spot a pencil eraser-sized bit of yogurt on his left hand, and he goes berzerk. He starts crying and holds up his hand, screaming, "HAND! HAND! HAND!" until I wipe his hand clean. Then, he's calm again, and goes back to the bowl of yogurt, all the time wearing his purple gunky mask that is starting to resemble a spa treatment.

At this point, Dylan is no longer in his booster seat, but has insisted upon sitting on my lap and has taken to eating my rice with a fork (which isn't working out too well for him). I try to feed him some with my fork, which inspires him to do the same to me. Unfortunately, he's not handy with the fork and rice, so he decides to grab a little. This fistful of rice, you see, is for me. Now, this is very sweet of him, but the snot dripping down his face from the temper tantrum he threw in order to get out of his chair and onto my lap is kind of grossing me out. I deny the rice, but he insists and starts kicking his feet. I guess I've insulted him and his offering, so now it's clear that I'm going to have to eat the rice--snotty face, yogurt-gunked fingers and all.

So this is love.

Hospital Gurney Bliss

8:00 PM

Saturday evening started out so peacefully. The kitchen had been cleaned, the twins went to bed, and Michael and I sat down with his mom, Ricky and Gigi to play a game of Spades. We sat as a family at our dining room table (some of us with glasses of red wine, others with cream soda) and played a cheerful game while holiday music entertained our ears. Feeling full and warm, we headed off to bed fairly early, enjoying the first cold evening in Arizona.

12:30 AM

Michael awoke with the worst headache of his life. After 45 minutes of crying and vomiting, we rushed to the emergency room. Tick, tock . . . Tick, tock . . .

2:00 AM

Dr. Johnson was thorough in both his questioning and physical examination, and he was clearly concerned. He recommended both a CAT scan and that he extract spinal fluid to look for a blood clot, tumor or aneurysm.

2:30 AM

Shot of Vicodin (For Michael. No one offered me anything).

3:00 AM

The CAT scan was painless, but the spinal tap was quite unpleasant for Michael. This is now the second time I've seen this happen to someone (the first was Dylan at 11 months old). I felt horrible for Michael, but remember, I carried and gave birth to twins.

4:00 AM

Michael woozily asked me to join him in the hospital bed. Now, if you've ever visited the ER, you know that by "bed" I mean "gurney." So there we are, curled up on this gurney that couldn't have been much more than 2 feet wide. In his drug-induced haze he asks me to list the items that we're going to sell at our garage sale next weekend, and somewhere in between infant car seats and crappy formica furniture, I dozed off.


5:15 AM

The lights tear my eyelids open and there's Dr. Johnson, telling us that Michael's been walking around with a sinus infection for the past 2 weeks. We leave with prescriptions for pain medication and an anti-biotic. Halfway home, Michael turns to me and says, "So, what did the doctor say about my migraines?"

5:30 AM

Lying in bed . . . home . . . sleepy . . .

Maybe it was the thought of something horrible happening to Michael, or the cold night, or (to be quite cynical) the fact that football season has finally ended, but I snuggled up close to him that night, trying to recreate the feeling I had just before I dozed off on the hospital gurney.

The following evening I did it again.