Angie Kinghorn

In which I take a nap on a bed of nails

So, what have I done this week?  Oh, nothing much out of the ordinary.  
  • Played both paramedic and Dr. Mom to one four year old with two skinned knees and shins.  Band-aids were applied with style and panache, thankyouverymuch.  I do apologize for the screaming.  I’m sure you heard it, no matter where you were.
  • Assured four year old with skinned knees that yes, I know what I’m doing.  After all, I am a Juris Doctor.
  • Accepted worshipful looks from both twins as they struggled to comprehend how a Juris Doctor is like a pediatrician.  (Hint: not at all.)
  • Convinced both children that all mommies are covered in eyeballs.  Not just the backs of our heads, but everywhere.  Further convinced them that the extra eyes are visible only to adults.
  • Corrected each twin’s grammar regarding proper usage of “me” vs. “I” so that both sound far more intelligent than any contestant ever to appear on “The Bachelor.”
  • Negotiated a truce between the leaders of two small (but fierce) terrorist factions.
  • Rescued the dog from a hostage situation involving said terrorist factions.
  • Cleaned up purple paint spilled during an attempt by the female terrorist to deface the base camp of the male terrorist. 
  • Confiscated and disposed of both sides’ remaining paint supplies, forcing them to revert to the more primitive crayon.
  • Instructed two four year olds on the finer points of dancing properly to “Ice, Ice, Baby.”
  • Attempted to explain to one unnamed four year old boy that swinging one’s, um, male parts around while dancing is not appropriate.
  • Assured said four year old boy that swinging said male parts around while dancing is not what the manufacturers of Thomas the Train underwear had in mind when they put a hole in the front of his briefs.
  • Explained the origin of belly buttons to two absolutely astounded pupils, who demanded photographic evidence that their umbilical cords were not a figment of Mommy’s imagination.
  • Took a brief nap on a bed of nails at the local children’s science museum.  I’m serious.   Over 4,000 nails.  Note: do not surrender control button of bed of nails to small terrorists, no matter how cute they may be.
  • Fired an air cannon at my husband and both children.
  • Allowed both my husband and both children to fire an air cannon at me.
  • Found SIX four leaf clovers while walking the dog.
  • Bought a lottery ticket.     

“Just wait until he’s sleepy and sneak up on him.”

I am dog sitting.  For a dog that is near and dear to my heart.  My mother’s dog, Baggins.  (No, she’s not a huge Lord of the Rings fan.  He was a rescue dog and the name came with him.)  


So, for my very first vlog, I bring you this.  No animals were harmed in the making of this video.  And Mark is a very good sport.



[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3fT_G-iAyXY?rel=0&w=480&h=390]

Bathroom revelations and the Effing Fours

All our earth-shattering revelations seem to take place in the bathroom.  Recently, while bathing the kids, Mark and I listened to them chatter.  They have a favorite new twin game, tentatively titled Make Up a Hypothetical and Then Argue About It.  Whoever cries first loses.
I can’t remember which hypothetical brought on the hysteria that night.  It was either A’s, “We’re gonna go on a train someday.  So I’ll go first with Mommy, and then Daddy and G can go.”  
G: “No, I wanna go first!”  
A: “No, because I’m going first with Mommy.”
G: “Noooooooo!”
Or it could have been G’s, “I a shark.  You’re a unicorn.”  
A: “No!  I’m a mermaid.  You’re the pirate.”
[Much splashing.]
G: “Grrrr!  I a shark!  I bite you!”
A: “No, you’re a pirate!”
G: “Shark!  Grrrr!  I is going to bite you, unicorn!”
A: “Aieeeeeee!!!!!”
“Sometimes I feel like I’m living in a Faulkner novel.  Stream-of-consciousness,” Mark said.  Then the discussion turned to whether A would be dreaming about Care Bears or counting sheep.  She dissolved into tears, wailing that the sheep were an impossible task, as there were only 19.
“Or maybe Kafka,” he added, thoughtfully, rinsing G’s hair.  “A nightmare where nothing makes any sense.”
Like the fact that their olfactory senses have only recently picked up that it smells bad after  the other one goes to the bathroom.  Recently they both had to go, so they were arguing about who got to go first.  A won.  She’s a Tiger Daughter, y’all.
So G, who desperately had to go to the bathroom, was faced with the choice to go into a smelly bathroom….or not.  “It smells bad!” he wailed.  “I can’t go in there!”
“You’ll live,” I told him, as I helped A on with her pants.
“I won’t!  I won’t live!” he said, tears running down his cheeks.  “It’s too smelly!”
“Where will he go live?” A piped up.  “He won’t live with us anymore?”
At this point, he was on the edge of a tantrum, I was over the edge of a migraine, and all I wanted was for him to get his butt into the bathroom so he could go to bed.  So I picked him up and set him down in front of the toilet.
“Go.  To.  The.  Potty,” I said, in my very scariest Mommy voice.
“Noooooo!  I won’t live, I won’t!  I won’t!”
I shut the door.  “GO.  NOW.”
From behind the door came the sounds of a toilet lid being slammed repeatedly.  “If you break that toilet, I will break your–” don’t say ‘ass,’ don’t say ‘ass,’ — “bottom, young man!”
Yeah.  Motherhood is glamorous, people.  
In my attempts to capture this glamor, dear sweet Lord, but I write down a lot of stuff.  Anything writing-related, however tangentially, goes into a file on my laptop labeled “works in progress.”  Having perused it tonight, (all 126 pages of it), I will shortly be re-naming it “sentence fragments and random thoughts I meant to do something with but never did and which now make absolutely no sense whatsoever.”
It’s the twins.  If I could just catch a ten minute uninterrupted period of relative quiet, some of these ideas might spring into being.  Paragraphs might be completed.  Knock-your-socks of posts would get written.
Oh, hell, who am I kidding?  I would fall asleep at the keyboard.
The twins are now four, and we’re discovering the joys of four-hood.  You see, each stage of parenting brings with it a new set of problems.  Problems that you can add to the ever-expanding list of “Things Nobody Told Me Before I Decided To Procreate.”  
Everybody knows about the Terrible Twos.  But it’s only when you’re planning your child’s third birthday party that a dear soul with older children will lean in and stage whisper with poorly concealed glee, “You know, three is actually worse than two.”
Don’t blame the messenger.  She’s not just a bitch.  She’s a bitch who’s knee deep in a later, horrible stage with her children, possibly involving standardized testing, vampires, infectious mononucleosis, puberty, and Justin Beiber.  (Not puberty of Justin Beiber, but that of her own child plus music of the eternally pre-pubescent Beibster.  Didn’t want to cause hysteria.)  Anyway, she’s definitely dealing with more than you can possibly comprehend.  You’re freaking out over tantrums and nap schedules; she’s confiscating lighters and Victoria’s Secret catalogues.
Anyway, whatever the source: they’re right.  I must have blocked out the actual details, but three was far worse than two.  Naturally I expected things would get better when we hit four.
And then one day, having coffee with a friend, she leans in and says, “You know, four is even harder than three.  I have a friend who calls it the ‘Effing Fours.’”
Ok.  Hold up.
NOBODY TOLD ME ABOUT THIS.
And it’s abso-freaking-loutely true.
Four is the age where formerly charming children turn into teenagers.  Like, totally.  I’m so not making this up, dude.  Complete with shrugging, dramatic sighing, eyerolling, and “It’s not FAIR!”  It’s the age of entitlement.
I was expecting this.  At, say, thirteen.
To compound the fun, my kids are dropping their afternoon nap.  Most people laugh when I say this, because their kids haven’t napped since the age of two, but G and A have always needed naps.  They still need a nap.  It’s just not happening, what with the gorgeous weather we’ve been having and their sudden urges to swing from the chandelier and/or build the entire Island of Sodor in our living room.
Hence my scattered thoughts.  And words.
Y’all, if you’ve got kids that are still napping, hold on to it with all you’re worth.  You’ll never know how much that small chunk of time in the afternoon keeps you sane.  Until it’s gone.

Men, boys, dogs, and other nonsensical things

I maintain that the Y chromosome, if you look closely enough, is a broken X.
Don’t get me wrong.  I love men.  I married one.
It’s just that they’re so damn weird.
Last night, for instance, Mark helped me bathe the children.  Because, for all my bitching about his broken chromosomes, he is an awesome specimen of manhood and also very helpful around the house and with the children.  He cooks.  He folds laundry.  He may be stolen from under my nose as soon as all his exceptionally positive attributes get out.  So, know this: for all his chivalry and helpfulness, he insists that the toothpaste be squeezed from the bottom.  Ha!  He is flawed.  Also, mine.  Hands off.  
Ahem. 
However, last night, Mark reminded me that no matter how helpful, loving, and caring he may be, he’s still got that broken chromosome.
Post-bath, we were drying and dressing the twins while the dog lounged about on the bed, licking various things, as dogs are wont to do.  Unfortunately, our dog is a bichon, which means he is constantly itchy, and wont to lick/scratch/bite himself into a bloody mess.  Literally.  Vet bills are about to become a line item in our household budget.
Anyway, the dog was gnawing on his back foot the way most of us would eat corn on the cob.  I was trying to brush A’s hair, so I asked Mark to stop it.  He took a sip of his drink (because yes, here at Casa Crazy, bathtime doubles as cocktail hour), leaned back in the glider, and said, “Hey, Teds, stop it.”
Yeah.  Dogs totally listen when you say stuff like that.
Predictably, Teddy continued to gnaw at his paw.  Mark took another sip of bourbon, and turned to the boy child.  I could see the gears spinning in his head as he looked from dog to boy.  
“Hey, G, do you think you could do that?” he asked.
“Do what?” G asked, oblivious to the dog drama playing out on the bed.
I bit back my automatic reply “That dog would bite you!” (Lewis Grizzard fans, I know you’re with me here; let’s all share a moment of silence for Lewis, UGA, and an unfortunate incident on the 50 yard line.)
“Do you think you could lick your foot like Teddy’s doing?” Mark asked.
I swear it was the fastest G’s ever moved.  Try to get him to get dressed and go to school, he drags his feet.  Ask him to put on his shoes, and five minutes later he might have decided which one goes on which foot.  But ask him to LICK a foot, and BAM!  Right down onto the floor, foot in mouth.  
“Oh,” Mark said, staring.  “I guess you can lick your foot.”  He continued to stare.  And, really, who wouldn’t?  A small boy on the floor, one foot yanked up to nose level, licking away.  And then, two feet away on the bed, a small fluffy dog in exactly the same pose.
People?  I am SO not making this up.