God, The Universe, and Other Things Spiritual

I was talking with a girlfriend yesterday about how none of my kids are baptized, which makes sense since I was never baptized either.  My immediate family isn't religious.  In fact, as a kid I was envious of my friends who went to church every Sunday and would beg to go with them.  I was also obsessed with angels and, at one point, had quite the collection going (figurine angels, not real flying ones).  Since my parents were obviously not the people to talk to about religion, they had me call a family friend with all of my religious and spiritual questions (and I had a lot).  Religion and spirituality have always been something I have been incredibly interested in.  I've just never found a religious or spiritual group whose beliefs match my own to share said interest with.

Not being baptized never bothered me before.  I am fairly confident that if my soul is in jeopardy it has nothing to do with whether or not water was thrown on my head (no disrespect to the ritual, which I actually think is beautiful)  and more to do with the choices I have made.  But having children changes everything and, on the off chance that taking that first sacrament does bring you eternal life or a space in heaven or whatever, I want my kids to have that.  In fact I want them first in line (in 100+ years when they have lived long and happy lives, of course).  But if I did go ahead and baptize my three amazing children it really wouldn't be about a relationship with god, it would be about succumbing to social pressures (not a fantastic reason to tie your child to a particular religious group).  

So again I struggle with the question, what do I truly believe about why I'm here on earth and what happens after I'm gone?  Actually scratch that, I'm pretty clear on why I'm here and have a vague but satisfactory (at least for me) idea about what happens next.  The question I struggle with is, what do I do with that knowledge and who can I share it with?  I love the idea of getting together with a group of like minded people and talking about respect for life, taking care of other human beings, and the power and energy of the universe.  I would absolutely be down for that and I would love for my kids to be part of a larger spiritual community.  But like I said before, finding this imagined spiritual community has been a challenge.  

There is this great quote in a movie (if you know what movie it's from let me know because I've forgotten) that goes something like this, "there are two things I know for sure; there is a god, and it isn't me."  This is sort of where I am.  I have always known that there was some kind of higher power, some master plan, some bigger energy.  I have felt it like I have felt my heart beating inside my chest.  I've always known it was there keeping me moving, keeping me centered.  Here's the hallmark of what I believe: we are here to learn and make positive connections with each other, the more we do those things the closer to "god" we get.  I use the term god very loosely (I apologize if that offends you, it isn't meant to).  I could also use "the universe" or "higher power" because I'm not really sure what "god" (or whatever) looks like and I'm okay with that.  In my view, it only matters that I have great respect for whatever it is that is out there watching over me and the people I care about.   

In my early 20's I scoped out several different houses of worship trying to find one that fit me and my simple little beliefs.  Four years of Catholic school taught me (among others thing) that I definitely wasn't Catholic.  It also left me with a lot of respect for the nuns that instructed me, and my classmates who found great comfort and inspiration from the Catholic Church.  It worked for them, it just wasn't a great fit for me.  The other religions and denominations I looked into were also not meant for my unclaimed, wandering soul.  What I discovered during that time is that I am just not Christian or, I think, meant for any of the world's organized religions.  


I have two issues with Christianity that keep me from jumping on board.  Number one, I don't get the extra special child thing (aka- Jesus).  That would be like deciding a few years down the road that my children are badly behaved and disrespectful and the answer is to have another baby who will be extra special and so awesome that my other kids will shape up.  If "god" was displeased with us, why not make us all a little bit better?  My other stumbling block is the only "we" go to heaven part.  "We" meaning only those who have accepted Jesus as their savior or, in some cases, even more specific than that.  So, here I am doing things to help others, respecting life, and being grateful for everything I have but I get passed over for the paradise of afterlives because I didn't believe in the right god?  But someone else can be a selfish jerk and walk hand in hand with Mother Theresa because he/she was baptized and accepted the right lord?  Nope, don't buy it.  Everything else I could accept.  Hell, I already know the 12 disciples and the colors of the liturgical year (thank you mandatory religion classes).  I figure I'd be ahead of the game.    

I am sincerely jealous of those of you who have found a religion or spiritual group to be a part of.  I want that for myself and for my family.  I don't want my kids to have to beg their friends to go to "church".  I want to be able to provide them a place to let their spiritual center grow and then they can tag along with their buddies to get another perspective (always a good thing).  So, my blog friends, I'm putting it out there to you.   My soul (so to speak) is up for grabs.  Any takers that meet my criteria?  Anyone up for starting our own little "god" group?  I'm all ears and spirit!  

The Truth About the Twins

My little ladies, Miss Eme (on left) and Miss Brynn

I am not a relaxed person, nor am I laid back.  I struggle to live in the moment and usually move through my days far too quickly.  I like having control in all areas of my life at all times.  With me there is always a plan in the works and a vision for what my future will look like.  At least, that was me before I became a baby making machine.  

For the most part my life has unfolded the way I planned.  From career, to marriage, homeownership, and having my first child, things happened approximately when I had hoped and planned that they would.  I kept my first pregnancy a secret for almost 48 hours so that I could surprise Sean at a fancy dinner with a cute message written on a card (that surpringly took him awhile to decphifer).  I was able to keep my happy news to myself because it was something I had chosen, planned for and predicted.  Other people could be caught off guard, leaving their future to blow around in the breeze.  I was the writer, producer, and director of my life (so I thought) and I liked it that way.  

I also had a plan for when I became pregnant with our second child.  Something that I had carved out future time for when Ben was three.  I had already bought my son a big brother t-shirt in a larger size and planned on allowing him to inform his father of his sibling using said shirt, totally cute and sweet and planned.  You have probably already figured out that this was not the way things went down.

Because I mistakenly believed that I had ultimate control over my own universe, there were a few things I neglected to give attention to (namely birth control).  Yes, yes, I know this was incredibly stupid and irresponsible of me (actually us) but in my defense we did have to really "try" to conceive Benjamin and it wasn't like we were partying under the sheets super often.  I suspect I sent this whole twin thing in motion the evening I proclaimed at a party that I didn't need to worry about birth control because God and I had a special relationship and he didn't make things happen for me until I was good and ready.  I think whatever higher power exists is still getting a pretty good laugh at my expense.  

Anyway, on Mother's Day of last year, after a week of feeling totally miserable, I took a 99 cent pregnancy  test  (purchased at Reny's because I love a deal) at 4:30 in the morning.  I don't really have the words to describe how I felt when that second pink line reavealed itself.  I was shocked, excited, terrified, overwhelmed, anxious.  I was a mess of emotions.  My brain almost instantly started obsessing about finances, my career, time management, daycare, my son's development, our cramped house, and every other thing that might be related to adding a person to your family.  I crept back into bed with my sleeping husband, literally shaking with emotion.  I thought about the cute big brother shirt stashed away in the back of my underware drawer.  I tried my best to close my eyes and relax my body but it just wasn't happening.  This was not something I could keep in.  So, I jostled Sean and awoke him from the blissful ignorance of sleep and whispered/cried, "umm, Sean, please don't freak out because I'm already going crazy enough for both of us but .....I'm pregnant".  Much to my astonishment my husband smiled and giggled and pulled me close.  "You're happy about this?!", I exclaimed.  "Of course", he responded.  "But Ben's still so little.  We don't have enough money.  I'm still probationary at work.  I wanted it to be planned!"  I went on and on with all of my worries but could not sway my husband.  He liked that our kids would be close in age and trusted that everything else would work out.  His confidence and excitement made me feel better but didn't do much to ease my overall anxiety.  Please keep in mind that this is how I felt when I thought we were having ONE more baby.

Fast forward a week when my OBGYN had me come in for an ultrasound to determine how far along I was in my pregnancy (since I had mistakenly believed god was honoring our unspoken deal and, as a result, had no idea when my last period was).  Fortunately, Sean was there with me.  We were acting like old pros while waiting for the sonographer to show us our little jelly bean but when the picture came up on the screen we were met with a concerning pause.  I readied myself for the news that there was no heartbeat or that our baby wasn't developing properly but instead the sonographer's blank face turned into a smile and she said "there THEY are".  My first thought was, what the f does that mean.  Second thought, that's not the least bit funny and I could probably get her fired for this nonsense.  What I said out loud (many, many times) was "are you serious?!" and "oh my god".  I have never been in such a state of disbelief in all my life.  My husband, true to form, sat beside me with a ridiculous grin on his face, pleased as punch by this news.  Unlike Sean, it didn't take me long to multiply by two all my previously stated concerns about my pregnancy and now bulging family.  

To be totally honest, at any given moment during my pregnancy, especially those early weeks, I swung between excitement and total terror.  With Ben I only felt elated when I thought of my growing, stretching uterus but with the twins there were lots of other feelings vying for attention and some of them weren't very maternal or selfless.  At times I didn't feel like a decent person, let alone mother, for being less than confident about my path as a mom of multiples.  If you read my earlier blog entitled "Better you than me", you know that people got under my skin with some of the things they said about my pregnancy and future life in twindome.  I am normally fairly difficult to offend but many of the comments I referenced in that blog got to me because they hit a very vulnerable and insecure spot.  Many of those people said things that I had also said to myself and then tried to bury in smiles and positive affirmations.    My greatest fear was that I would never love my girls to the extent that I loved my son and, even worse, that I may resent them for intruding on our lovely little threesome. 

It turns out (as I attempt to type while tandem nursing) that there was plenty of love inside my pulsating little heart to go around.  And while there are days I wish it didn't take quite so long to leave the house (not that I am seen out with anything resembling regularity) or that my diaper bill didn't have quite so many digits, instead of feeling resentment or remorse, when I look at my newest offspring I feel blessed and know that I am living the life I was intended.  In fact, the girls have already changed me in ways I couldn't have begun to imagine mere months ago.  

The first thing my beautiful little ladies taught me was that I am not in charge of the universe, my own or anyone else's, and to try and hold the reigns every second is like trying to quit sleeping, eventually you're going to get exhausted and pass out, better to just give in and go with the flow.  I am now much better at living in the moment because poopy diapers require a lot of attention and my daughters' smiles literally stop time.  I've also learned to be okay being less than ideal in a lot of areas of my little life.  I have given up on my ideal weight, ideal cleanliness of my house, ideal social calendar, and ideal bank account.  I'm more likely to give myself a break where I once would have obsessed about every mistake, every unchecked item on my to-do list, every person I may or may not have offended.  I've relaxed and it feels really good.  Who would have guessed that having three kids under three years old would cause me to feel more at peace and less rushed?  Not me but it's the truth, it's my truth and not a bad one to be living in.  So, thanks Miss Emelia and Miss Brynn.  Please pull out this blog for me when you are 16 with cars and boyfriends named Brock and Rod.  I have a feeling I might be in need of some reminders of this new found relaxation and peace of mind.  

My Affair With Writing

Starting this blog and taking the time to write regularly has been such a good thing for me.  I love being a mom but it's nice to spend some time doing something for me, something that uses a part of my brain that lately has been pretty dormant.  For as long as I can remember, writing has been important to me.  I'm a pretty expressive person.  It doesn't work for me to hold in my feelings or thoughts.  Writing has always provided me a safe, objective, nonjudgmental outlet, especially during times when I felt alone or without a confidant.  

My love affair with writing started very early on.  I thought myself to be a poet even before I could read or write.  Starting around three years old I would say, "Mommy, I have poetry", which meant my mother was suppose to find writing material asap, as I dictated my little rhymes and verses.  Eventually, my mom stared buying cute little journals for my poems with spaces for me to draw corresponding pictures.  My mother really encouraged my writing and even submitted a lovely poem entitled "Watch the Bunny" to the local newspaper, where it was of course promptly published and hung on every refrigerator my parents could get their hands on.  

Don't get confused here, I am not at all claiming to have been an advanced child, academically or otherwise.  I have a future blog entry in the works all about my early school struggles (and there were a lot of them).  But I loved books, rhymes, and songs- both reading them and creating them.  I think I was just born with a love of language and verbal expression.  To this day a really great line in a book or a song lyric can make me ball like a baby.     

When I was early school aged I started work on a pretty lengthy series of books about the dynamic characters KC and Brian.  I settled on these names for my lead characters because they were the only two names I could spell (to this day my phonemic awareness sucks).  KC and Brian solved a variety of mysteries that plagued their otherwise quiet neighborhood such as; finding a missing cat, locating a stolen teddy bear, and making friends with a new neighbor.  I can remember many hours spent at my parents kitchen table working diligently on my complex and gripping works of fiction, proudly presenting them to family members upon completion. 

Fast forward a few years to junior high, without a doubt the hardest years of my life as of yet.  I truly believe, not even using my flare for the dramatic, that I might not be here today if it hadn't have been for my ability to process through writing.  Many difficult and confusing things happened to me and those around me those couple of years.  It was all far too much for my undeveloped brain and my immature little self to take.  I won't get into the gory details, mostly because they're just sad and it doesn't make me feel good, but writing poetry and journaling about what I was experiencing pulled me through those difficult days that seemed to flow endlessly one after the other. 

I still have a lot of the writing I did back in those early teenage years.  Those poems and other pieces of writing bring me back to the little, scared, lonely girl I was then.  I thank whatever god or higher power there is out there that I brought pen to paper and let out all that poison inside me.  Because if it hadn't have been poetry , I'm sure I would have turned to something else far less therapeutic and a lot less forgiving.  

Fortunately, high school was an overall lighter time in the life of Bri.  In high school I wrote mostly on napkins at the Dunkin Dounuts close to my school, where the guy I liked "happened" to work.  I have bins and bins of napkins, receipts and bits of paper with random lines and poems scribbled with my chicken-scratch handwriting (it really is pretty awful looking), sometimes on every inch of surface.  For many years I couldn't throw away anything without looking carefully at all sides first to make sure there wasn't anything of significance written somewhere.  I think in those days I enjoyed attempting to look mysterious and complicated.  I'm not sure how I actually came across but I do remember how full of life I felt sitting at that orange booth, sipping on luke warm coffee out of a styrofoam cup, thinking about how original, jaded, and overall just awesome I was (funny how much can change in just a few years, junior high me would have loved one shred of that confidence).  

In college I continued my coffee writing escapades but moved up in the world to places called Java Joes and Casco Bay Books, cool local coffee shops, places that would now shock me with their prices and lack of decent parking (oh what my bank account would look like today if I could have back all the money I spent on lattes and beer in my youth).  I also upgraded to journals with insightful, thought-provoking quotes on the front, always in black and white because color wasn't interesting enough.  I wrote mostly about old boyfriends or affairs I was having with men far too old for me, or occasionally about the vastness of the universe and what my place might be in it.  I thought myself to be very deep, worldly, and damaged (in a cool, hip way).  Again, writing made me feel alive and powerful and in touch with myself in a way that usually eluded me.  

Not surprisingly, I started to write with less frequency after college and especially after I got married and started my family.  My husband and I estimated that I must have set the goal to write daily, or at least regularly, at least 20 times since we've been together but lack of time and other responsibilities always seemed to get in the way.  

Enter this blog.  Being able to write about my life and the things that shape it has been so freeing and has made me remember how much I love and enjoy giving my inner voice a stage.  Knowing that others are actually reading what I put out there into internet land, keeps me honest and motivated.  The butterflies in my stomach multiply rapidly every time I push "publish" and allow the world (well, at least my little corner of it) to see my latest thoughts in print.  

So, thank you so much for taking time out of your busy day to read about the latest developments in the mind of Bri (don't worry, I promise not to make a habit of talking about myself in third person) and helping to encourage me to keep sanity in my grasp.  I'm hoping I can keep the momentum going.  Feel free to berate me if I haven't come up with anything in awhile.  I respond well to torment and after-all, it will be for my own good.  

Married as a verb

Sean & I pre-kids

If you've been reading my blog regularly, and I expect that you are (hehehe),  you already know how my husband and I met and went from friends, to romance, to husband and wife.  That's the part most people are interested in;  the how did you meet, how did he propose, where did you get married part.  I get it, it's the piece of the story that's the most exciting, the most romantic, and usually the stuff couples are the most willing to talk aout.  People rarely ask about a married couples relationship beyond the I dos.  A close girlfriend might inquire how often you do the horizontal hokey-pokey, which may or may not be a useful barometer of the success of your marriage.  But beyond that, it doesn't seem that we spend much time talking about the art of being and staying married.

The four years since Sean and I wed have gone fairly smoothly.  We absolutely have our tough topics and have had some rocky moments but, until really recently, these issues haven't affected the security and confidence we have in our bond.  We have always talked about the importance of making our marriage a priority and constantly working on our relationship.  Before our most recent life change, finding the time and energy to do that hadn't really been that hard for us. But the last few months have been a different story, a story with a lot more bumps in the road.  

While I was pregnant with the girls, I read in several different sources that marriages of parents of multiples are almost twice as likely to end in divorce compared to other married couples.  I have to say that in the 12 weeks in which we've had our little ladies, I've gotten a taste as to what that stat is all about.  To be totally honest, a few weeks after our twins were born, I went through a pretty good stretch of days when I felt almost totally disconnected from my husband.  I was finding that by the time Sean got home from work the kids were all in the middle of their witching hour and I was also tired and crabby.  When he walked in the door I wanted to go to bed with my book or go for a drive in my car but instead I needed to nurse a baby or bath a toddler, not so different from the way my day had been going before my husband got home.  Not only was I feeling like we were living in two parallel universes, it also felt like Sean's universe was considerably less demanding and that he was enjoying freedom and relaxation that I so desperately wanted, needed. 

It was all fairly terrifying and that statistic about the divorce rate for parents of multiples kept screaming in my head.  I knew I needed to talk to Sean but I feared that giving my thoughts a voice would make the distance I was feeling more real and perhaps more dangerous.  Fortunately, I faced this fear and talked to my hubby anyway.  Not so surprisingly, he was also feeling disconnected and neglected (although for totally different reasons).  We had a long talk, which had it's difficult moments, but ultimately were able to distinguish what the other needed; more help and understanding for me, more physical contact for Sean.  We both made the commitment to put our marriage back on our list of daily priorities.  Some days the dishes and the laundry don't make that list and that's okay.  I would rather have dirty socks and eat off the same dish all day than lose my husband who, in-spite of being a man, really is pretty amazing.

After that talk things have gotten so much better.  No matter how crazy the day or how tired I am, I make an effort to kiss my husband when he gets home and ask about his day.  And Sean has been encouraging me to get out of the house more and get some space.  Which usually means trips to Walmart, since that is the only place on most days that I'm dressed appropriately for (think sweats and t-shirts with breastmilk stains).  I also talked to my parents and they have committed to giving us regular date nights, since sometimes even being able to have a 5 minute, non-baby related conversation in this house is impossible.   

Actually, just the other night Sean and I went out for some drinks and had a conversation about this very topic.  Sean made a great analogy.  He likened not working on your marriage on a daily basis with taking a college class and not doing any of the semester's work until the night before grades close.  Most likely if you don't put effort in on a regular basis, you're probably going to fail.  Since I do have three kids under three, and I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be very sought after in the dating scene, I best do everything I can to keep my marriage afloat.  

Sean & Bri + 3

In conclusion, I think there needs to be a verb that describes the act of being and staying married.  A word that describes the things we do to stay connected to our spouse (even when what we really want to do is take a nap).  So instead of saying, "I'm going shopping" or "I'm bathing the kids" or "I'm sleeping", we can say to each other "It's time to do some marriaging".  In fact, I'm going to get off the computer and take advantage of all three of my kids napping at the same time, and send my husband a little text message.  Maybe it will even be the sort of thing I wouldn't repeat here on the www.  Now wouldn't that be doing some pretty decent marriaging.  

Maternity Leave Limbo Land

I am in the middle of a little bit of an identity crisis.  Being on an extended 18 week maternity leave has allowed me to put work on the back-burner and really focus on my family, in particular getting to know my beautiful little ladies, Eme and Brynn.  But although my days are focused on feedings, diaper changes, and finger painting, I am not a stay at home mom.  I do have a career outside the home and some days, especially when I check my email too often, it calls to me from down the road, begging for my attention.  

Because my work schedule follows the school calendar, I am fortunate to only have to go back to work for 8 weeks before being able to be home again for summer vacation.  I think that knowledge has allowed me to feel even more removed than I would be if there were still several months left in the school year.  Even so, I am still invested and connected to the school in which I work and the kids inside it.  I also know that whatever is going on within the walls of that school building today will effect me and my work come April 23rd, making it impossible to really put it out of my mind.

Now, I am use to balancing work and my family.  I have been a mother for two years and three months, and I have learned to manage wearing those two hats simultaneously.  Not that it's ever been easy or simple, but I have figured out how to feel good about my work as a school counselor and my forever job of being a mother.  I have also learned that there are times in which one role needs my focus more than the other and that it's okay to turn down the volume on my mommy meter and let my work persona take over (or visa-versa).  This is one of those times when I am suppose to be a mommy first and foremost but although my work radar is lowered considerable, it isn't totally turned off.  Those work sounds: the cries of crises, the guidance lessons, the lunch groups, and crowded meetings, still hum in my ear.  They're not loud enough to cover the coos or cries of my girls or the giggles and jokes of my toddler but they make a background noise that's pretty difficult to ignore and trying to do so takes up energy I would rather leave for other things.

If I could, I would love to stop working until all three of my kids are in kindergarten.  I would love to pack up "School Counselor Bri", and put her into a closet somewhere with my classroom guidance lessons, my DSM-IV, and my basket of fidgets, and keep her safely tucked away (out of hearing distance) for about 5 years when all four of us (the kids and I) could happily make the track to school together.  But alas, we cannot afford for me to stay home and I have learned to be okay with that.  I am so blessed to have a career and a job that I love that isn't just a paycheck but also something I find incredibly rewarding and on most days, enjoyable.  The school calendar allows me 10 weeks in a row every year to be home with my kiddos.  We get to enjoy beautiful, warm Maine summers frolicking on beaches, playgrounds, and inside state parks (not really something to complain too much about).  I also have practically every holiday known to man off, as well as snow days, and three other vacation weeks (not bad for a family girl).  

I have a good gig.  I will still miss my kids horribly when I go back inside those brick walls in the spring and will probably feel a little sorry for myself for having to leave my simple but lovable life at home but I do know it could be a lot worse and considerably harder.  I feel for those women who don't have any vacation time or have jobs that they get nothing else out of besides a paycheck (if you are reading this and are in one of these situations, please accept a hug and a pat on the back from me).

So here I am, happily lost inside maternity leave limbo land.  Eight more weeks ahead of me to stick my metaphorical career head in the sand and focus only on the little people who now lay on my lap and hang off my back.  But I never forget that only a couple of miles down the road 600 of my little friends play, learn, and grow in that winding, brick building with my office inside full of my things but currently inhabited by a stranger.  That room and those children await my return and, although other difficult feelings will be flying around for me those first days back, I will be happy to see my students' smiling faces and to catch up on all they've been up to during my not so complete absence.  

My Life in 1969

Welcome to 1969!  Hello, blue shag carpets!

No, I'm not using fuzzy math, I wasn't really kicking it in 1969 with all the other groovy people but the house in which I sit sure was.  1969 was the year this elegant spilt level house was built, with it's blue shag carpeting, patriotic wallpaper, and speckled laminate countertop.  The day we moved in it screamed 1960's and it's still at least whispering it's ode to the decade to this day.  

We decided to fulfill the American dream of being property owners about 5 years ago.  We were one of the many unlucky fools that bought right before the real estate bubble burst, removing the rose colored glasses from many American's eyes.  Back when qualifying for a mortgage was easier than opening a savings account, I was beyond excited about home ownership.   I felt especially lucky since I was making this all important purchase with a guy who could handle most home improvement projects and fix many of the issues I imagined could arise when you owned a piece of the American pie.  

When it came to shopping for a home, I surprised myself.  I am not someone who enjoys shopping.   A trip to the mall is not my idea of a good time.  When I do have to venture out for something specific, I have about a half hour window before I burn out, get a headache, and head for home, even if it's empty handed.  I am also usually VERY indecisive.  In order to make a purchase I have to be in love with the item in question and I still usually need a second (or third, or forth) opinion before taking the long walk to the cash register.  Home buying was strangely different for me.  I really enjoyed looking at houses and picturing the life I might have inside.  I also suddenly had the urge to jump right in and buy every other house we looked at.  For once, my husband was the voice of reason and our real estate agent was fortunately a friend who wasn't just commission hungry.  

Because my husband was ready and able (so he claimed) to fix up whatever house we bought, we focused on those houses which could use some TLC and able hands to spruce them up.  We had visions of a house we could take some personal credit for and one we could make some moolah out of when we went to sell (something we laughably thought would happen in 2-4 years).  We looked at some really beautiful houses in our price range that were already in close to tip-top shape but passed in search of one that was in need of our love and affection (those houses with their updated kitchens and shiny, new siding now haunt my dreams).  

On a rainy day in June we found what we were looking for in a white split level house with blue shutters, sandwiched between two other lovely split levels.  It was sort of like a party for retro houses, except most of the other houses in this affluent town wouldn't be caught dead attending.  But at the time, we didn't see it that way at all.  I at least, saw this house as my little piece of heaven.

I was 25 when I first stepped foot into the house in which I now reside.  The fact that someone was going to let me own a home was unbelievable to me.  I wanted to hurry up and buy before someone took away my adult card, realizing I was just a child playing dress up, sending me back to the kid table.  The fact that we were even looking at a house in this town was unbelievable to me.  In my mind only extremely successful doctors, lawyers, and politicians lived in this coastal community.  I was instantly in love with this humble abode, eagle over the door and all.  To me it looked gigantic, like it could house 10 offspring (which is good since I've come closer to that than I ever imagined).  Instead of being deterred by the blue shag carpeting that covered 75% of the house (even the living room and bathroom was carpeted) and the wall paper with flags, hearts, and huge purple flowers, I pictured the house we would have in a matter of weeks with hard wood and tile floors, and walls painted with clean, conservative colors.  I saw every downside as an adventure and an investment.  I wanted to make an offer that minute, that very second.  A month later we were spending our very first night in our very own 1969 home (every little girl's dream).

Today I see this house a little differently.  Many of the projects that were going to be done that first summer are left unchecked on a disheveled to do list filed away in some  untouched drawer.  It turns out that on most days my husband doesn't want to come home and do more of the work on his own house that he has spent all day doing on someone elses.  While we haven't walked on blue-shag carpet in quite some time, we do still have siding and a deck that have seen much better days (like back in the 70's).  Although I do believe in counting my blessings, as I am driving home I often wish I was pulling into the house across the street or better yet further down the road on the OTHER side of town.  

Today as I write this little blog entry, I wish I had those 25 year old eyes back.  Because the fact of the matter is that we're not going to be building our dream house anytime soon (not with three kids in diapers anyway).  This is our home today, and for the next few hundred at least.  I need to spend more time looking around and feeling blessed to have a house to raise my kids in that we can afford to keep and to heat (although sometimes just barely), and to have a backyard and enough space for my toddler to play.  So the 1969 split level packaging isn't perfect and it isn't what I would choose if I had to choose again, it is what I have and it is the setting of 5 years of some of the best memories of my life.  I remind myself that some people would do backflips to have this house or any house.  And that 25 year old me would probably have done backflips if she could have, upon having our offer accepted all those years ago.  In conclusion, I am working on more happily living my 1969 life and all the blue shutters, pink tiles, and turquoise garages that it comes with.  It is, after all, a fairly wonderful life.  

Better You Than Me

32 weeks pregnant with my girls & feeling pretty good about it!

So anyone that has ever been pregnant can tell you that people say some pretty dumb "insert expletive" to women who appear to be with child.  When I was pregnant with my son I was shocked by the comments and questions of some of my friends, family, and acquaintances, let alone total strangers.  For some reason many people seem to feel like pregnant women no longer have the right to their personal space bubble or a right to keep private information private.

But my experiences with the stupidity (maybe ignorance is a kinder, more appropriate word) of some during my first pregnancy, did not even begin to prepare me for the comments, questions, and general demeanor of people when they discovered I was having twins.  My girls are now 9 weeks old and I am still haunted by some of the awkward conversations I was faced with at a time when I was already pretty uncomfortable.  

Please don't get me wrong, most people were totally lovely and supportive about my family almost doubling in size.  I found the words of moms of multiples to be especially calming, positive, and helpful.  But some people would have been much better off with a simple "hello" in passing or "congratulations" when told of my crowded uterus.  

Since having my girls comments of the insensitive variety have not stopped but now that my daughters are here and I've found I am still able to breathe, speak, walk, and perform other functions essential for life, these comments don't have the ability to shake me as they once did. 

So here it is, for your viewing pleasure, my list of things NOT to say to someone who has or is prengant with twins.  And yes, all of these things were said to me at least once.

• "Was it planned?"  Come on people, really?  Who plans for twins?!  I'm not sure if these people (yes, this is one that I've been asked several times) were really inquiring about our use or nonuse of fertility drugs or to see if our daughters were conceived through IVF, which, in case you were wondering, is also not okay to ask.  Or perhaps they were questioning if the pregnancy itself was planned, once again, unless you are a really close friend, not appropriate to ask of a stranger or causal acquaintance.  

• "You know how hard that's going to be, right?"  Didn't your mother ever tell you that if you can't say anything nice you shouldn't say anything at all?  Basically telling someone that you think the rest of their life is going to be a living hell isn't nice, not nice at all.   

• "Why don't you hurry up and have that baby already?"  This is actually not okay to say to any woman at any time, ever.   A total stranger said this to me at the mall.  You should have seen her face when I told her in my bitchiest voice that I certainly hoped that I wouldn't have my babies any time soon, since I was only 30 weeks along!  Take that, jerk!

• "You look about 6 inches bigger than last week!"  Or any other comment that involves guessing about  size or weight increase.  Bottom line if you wouldn't (or better yet shouldn't) say it to a woman who is not pregnant, then it is equally not okay to say it to a woman with child or in my case, children.  

• And the most annoying thing ever said to me regarding having my girls, "Better you than me."  I'm not sure why this one bothered me so much, perhaps it was the tone and body language of this total stranger.  Said woman looked at me like I had some contagious disease that she might catch if she got too close.  I'm not a violent person but I'm pretty confident that if she had stuck around much longer she would have instead caught my fist on her face (not very school counselor like of me).  

I'm sure if I kept thinking about it I could come up with at least a dozen more bothersome comments but I feel the need to contain this rant and get back to the wonderful world of my three cute little monsters and all the smiles, throw up, love, and blow-outs they give me.  Because honestly, even though I have considered calling a mental institution once or twice, it is an amazing life and I feel so lucky to be living it.  

Double duty!