The End of the Sugar Rush

Today is the twin Fries' 4th birthday.

I spent yesterday afternoon making sure I had everything to bake the cake.

It is, unsurprisingly, a 3-D rubber-duck cake.

I was up extremely late decorating it.  Or was that just up really early this morning, and then I took a nap?  I'm not sure.

At least it's recognizable as a duck.  Given that this was my first attempt at greater decorations than just a healthy smattering of chocolate chips on top of a cake, I think I did rather well. 

I confess to coming completely unhinged when, in the process of moving the plated cake from the table to the counter, it became clear that I was not as skilled as I thought I was, or that the duck was drunk on frosting or something, because it was clearly tipsy.

I called Hubby and told him the duck was falling, and promptly burst into tears.  He helped stabilize it after the duck itself came unglued, and between some toothpicks, three plastic knives, and the rest of my yellow frosting, we got him back together.  And then I cried some more and decided 2 a.m. was waaaaaaaaaay too late to be up, when I had to be up again in six hours.  Or less, depending on when the first kid decided to wake us up.

As it turned out, Large Fry held off coming into our room until just before 8:30 this morning.  I slapped the snooze button a couple of times, and then forced myself to get up.  The twins woke up (or, at the very least, finally opted to get out of bed) as I bumbled down the hall to shower, Large Fry on my heels.

You have not lived until you've had four- and five-year-old voyeurs, peering at you from between the shower curtains, and squealing, "Spway us, Auntie J!"  (Our cat Koa used to sit on the edge of the tub, between the curtains, and peek her head around to watch me shave, but she kept demanding her quarter back.  Or she got bored.  I'm not sure.)

Innyhoo.

I came downstairs to put on shoes and makeup and get ready to head out the door, and made a discovery that would have been heart-rending had I made said discovery six hours before.

My cats are addicted to sweets, so my biggest fear was that the little gluttons would OD on sugar and lick the frosting off the cake.  They know they're not supposed to be on the counter, but they're cats.  They ignore rules when the rules don't suit them.

The duck however, decided to molt in the night.

Well.

Not much could be done about it then; I had to be out the door in about two minutes for a doctor's appointment.

I sent Hubby a text from the doctor's office, as I waited in the exam room.  "The duck molted!"

By the time I got home, Hubby had patched up the molting as best he could.  I helped the Fries get dressed and then went upstairs to wrap presents.  Okay, well, I tried. Because....

There was much squealing and great delight as Gramma and Boppa arrived.  "Gramma!  Gramma! Gramma!"  (Poor Boppa doesn't get the same respect.)  "Auntie J made a ducky cake! Come see it!"

Dad confessed to the fact that they were horrible grandparents--both of them had forgotten their cameras.  "You can use mine," I said.  "I'll send you copies."  With that, I snagged the scissors, tape and wrapping paper, and finally went upstairs to wrap presents.

Dad apparently took me at my word.  He used my camera.

And used it.  And "helped" the grandchildren use it.

And they had a marvelous time, it seems.

I should really learn to be careful what I say to my father.

But it's probably not a bad thing, really, that they're using it under adult supervision.  (Sort of.)  Because I bought them a kid-proof digital camera for Christmas.  They might as well figure out what they're supposed to do.

Preferably without killing my $260 camera.

Then...let them eat cake!

But first, let them sing.  The twins sang each time to each other.  Or was that to themselves?  I'm really not sure.  It was cute, though.

And then...let them blow out candles!

Small Fry went first.  Apparently, she has a healthy set of lungs and a good idea of how to blow.  She blew the candle out on the first try!

Medium Fry?  Not so much.

She blew.

The candle stayed lit.


She giggled.

She blew again.

The candle stayed lit.

Boppa had to refrain from actually blowing with her, but didn't manage to stop his mouth from taking the proper form for candle-blowing.  (Sorry, Dad.)

Medium giggled again.

She blew again.

Hey!  Success!

Good job, Hubby.  We can see the smoke curling from the candle's wick.

Mom had a moment of panic when we cut open the cake, revealing that I'd used a Funfetti mix.  (She's very allergic to corn syrup, and it's in EVERYTHING.)  I assured her that I'd checked everything, from the ingredients on the cake mix to the stuff that went into the frosting, and I was quite sure she was able to safely eat it.

Next time, I think we'll have chocolate duck, though.

Yes, Hubby insisted on braining the bird after Medium squealed that she wanted a piece of the head.

I guess I didn't need to worry about her coming unglued over eating a ducky cake the way Large Fry had about eating an Elmo cake (on her 3rd birthday).

This was too good not to share....

I love Facebook.  I'm able to keep in touch with family and friends all over the world.

And, occasionally, remind myself that I'm not alone in the insanity we call motherhood.  (Parenthood, if you must.  But this is MY blog.)

I about fell off my chair when I read my college roommate's current status:

My lunatic son (the redhead) decided to draw on himself instead of reading and settling down for bed.  He drew a Hitler moustache and also drew targets around his nipples and bellybutton. He isn't even embarressed?  What do I do with this child?!

I waved at Hubby, getting his attention.  I asked if he was my roomie's friend.  When he said he was, I told him that he just had to look at her current status.

I giggled and watched his face while he read it.

Then he pulled his laptop closer and commented:

STAND HIM AGAINST THE WALL AND BREAK OUT THE DARTS.

Yeah, that'll work!

Conversations Redux

For dinner tonight, I made mac and cheese from scratch.  No boxes.  No cheese sauces.  The real stuff.

It's been something of a struggle to get Large Fry to eat it when I make it.  If Gramma makes the Velveeta shells & cheese, she likes it just fine.  She'll eat that.  But the homemade kind?  Not so much.

Innyhoo.

It was a rough night for me to stand and cook in the kitchen, given the impending weather front that's going to be moving through and my poor ankle with four healed breaks and two titanium screws was griping about everything.

We sat down to dinner, and the kids dug in...to their green beans first, surprisingly.  After Hubby had cleared his plate, he set his fork down and looked at me.

Hubby: Auntie J, thank you for making this yummy dinner.  The mac and cheese is very good!

Me:   You're welcome.

Hubby [to Medium Fry]: Isn't it yummy?

Medium Fry [grinning like a goober]:  Yes.

Hubby:  You should tell Auntie J that.

Medium Fry: Fank you for da yummy dinnewr, Auntie J!

Small Fry:  Amen!

Hubby [chuckling]:  I guess that's a second!

Conversations

Medium Fry:  Auntie J, why does Popoki have black eyes in hewr gween eyes?

Me [glancing down at the object of discussion]:  Those are her pupils.  They help her see.


A few minutes later....

I'm in the bathroom, fixing my hair.

Medium Fry: Auntie J, I have to go potty.

Me:  Okay, honey.

Medium Fry:  If Popoki didn't have pyookuls...

Me [thinking]:  What?

Medium Fry:  Um.  Um.  Um.  Um.


[Yes, that gets annoying real fast.]

Medium:  Um.  Um.  Um.  Um.   If....

Me [putting brush and hair dryer away]

Medium:  If Popoki didn't have pyookuls, she wouldn't be able to see!

Me [comprehension dawning]:  You're right!  If Popoki didn't have pupils, she wouldn't be able to see.

The Art of the Con

It's toy clean-up time.  Undoubtedly, one of the most-hated times in our house.

Hubby:  Clean up faster!  [sigh]  I don't think you guys are getting baths tonight.

Fries: [Panting and breathing faster.]

Hubby:  I said clean up faster, not breathe faster!

Yeah, like that was going to show him that they were working faster.  Good try, kids.

*snicker*

I shouldn't laugh.

Small Fry just came back into the living room, from the potty, buck naked.

It's bedtime.

I pull her over to me so that I can put her diaper for the night on her while she's still standing up.  (Hubby can't do that, so the job falls to me.)  And, normally, this is when I would play "Squeezie Cheeks!"  But she hasn't been listening tonight.  So, no games at bedtime.

As I put the diaper between her legs and fastened the first tab, I remarked, "You're skinny!"  (From our trip to the doctor's office yesterday, I know that her twin outweighs her by almost five and a half pounds.)

"Yes!" she said.  "I have hair on my tuchus.  Little tiny hair."

I'm not sure how I managed to keep a straight face.  "That's not what I meant!"

Middle-of-the-Night Conversations

One of the perils (yes, it can occasionally be called that) of parenthood is that, at some point, you will share your nice, big, warm, comfortable bed with your small child...at which point, it becomes a cramped, crowded, too-small, uncomfortable bed as you contort yourself into positions not meant for being slept in, so that you won't disturb your blissfully sleeping, wind-milling child.

When they lay still and sleep peacefully, it's fine.  I can deal with that.  It's when they can't lay still.  Or when it's more than one of them.

We should have bought a king-sized bed.  Seriously.  There's not enough room in there for Hubby and me, and three kids, who are now lots bigger than they were 2.5 years ago when they moved in with us.

Medium Fry has recently developed the habit of seeking out our bed in the middle of the night, more nights than not.  We're still trying to figure out how to curtail that.  It's not as though she's waking screaming from a nightmare--we know what that sounds like, and then fully expect company in bed.  No, this is more along the lines of a stealth invasion.  She wakes up in the middle of the night for no real reason, and decides she doesn't want to sleep alone, and so she and Duckie meander down the hall to our room, where she quietly climbs in our bed, nestles inbetween us, and goes right back to sleep.  And, an indeterminate time later, a foot or an elbow or a head in the back alerts us that we've been invaded.

I have no idea what time Medium joined us last night.  However, I do know that, at about 5 a.m., Small Fry also came to the party in our bed.  And woke up Medium (if she was asleep).  Or they came in together, which has happened before.  I have no idea when or how they arrived.  I just know they did, because they couldn't leave each other alone.  Feet in the face.  Feet in the back.  Laying on.  And that was just the twins, with each other, not counting the appendages that attacked me or Hubby.  I do know that I barely slept because of the in-fighting.  And that Hubby, who sleeps on his back due to his CPAP machine, had ordered them to settle down several times.

Which failed.  Miserably.

At 6:15 a.m., I'd had enough.  "Back to your own beds!" I ordered.

Medium whimpered, the kind that indicates a full-on crying jag is imminent.  "It's too scawwy!" she whined.  I squinted to see through the early-morning gloom.

What was scaring her?  My pair of jeans laid on top of a suitcase that hadn't made it up to the attic yet.

Sigh.

I sat up, fought off the mild vertigo that has been my friend since last summer's auto accident, and shoved my feet into my slippers.  Then I unceremoniously herded my little interlopers back to their own beds.

Small Fry started crying as she got into her bed and I turned on the radio, which is pre-tuned to a classical station.  I re-tucked-in Medium Fry, and then went to fix Small's blankets.

"Why are you crying?" I asked as I settled the fleece blankets over her.

She whimpered.  "I want to seep in youwr bed!"

"But you weren't sleeping in my bed!  No one was sleeping in my bed, because you and Medium were playing!"

She whimpered again.

"Go to sleep."

Thankfully, she settled down at that and I was able to go back to bed and get some sleep.

Which is a good thing, because I'm sure I would've lost a battle somehow if she'd tried out her nearly-four-year-old logic on me.