Thursday, November 18, 2010

Half Birthday Lessons...or The Tale of the Flying Plate

Good Morning Readers,

Another busy few days have gone by, and with those days have come valuable life lessons and significant landmarks….and by that prior statement I mean that our babies are still alive and thriving after six whole months and we’ve now learned about something we’re not allowed to do ever again.
     First of all, I’d like to give myself and the husband another pat on the back to reward our child rearing skills thus far. Six months is a big deal for any parent. It signifies not only a first half-birthday for your little twinkie, but that you’ve shouldered your way through the late nights, constant feedings and oblivious stares, to a little more sleep, less feedings, and infants that laugh when you trip over the dog. In the twin’s case, I’m not only being laughed at, but screamed at as well. My daughter has mastered the art of a Mariah Careyesque high C note, and uses it mercilessly if she happens to be a) left alone, or b) stuck like a tiny beached whale on her back.
These developments are all well and good, but they definitely contributed to an epic parent fail husband and I experienced this past weekend. I’ll set the scene…
     Imagine, if you will, a cozy booth for two at your favorite restaurant (any restaurant will do as it will have no bearing on what happens next.). You sit across from your soul mate gazing into each others eyes, conversing over things that smart, socially conscious people often do…news, weather, when Lindsay Lohan’s getting out of jail. You then casually reach down to put an appetizer on your plate and realize that you can’t. Oh No! Why? Because your plate is now is the grasp of a chubby little hand that’s getting ready to chuck it at the next innocent passerby. Quickly grabbing the plate from said baby’s paw, you set the dish down just in time to realize that a pacifier has just whizzed past your head and ended up under your seat…hmmm….crud. Knowing full well that you’re nowhere near being ready to try out for Cirque de Solei, but conscious of the fact that a baby in want of a pacifier is likened to a nuclear bomb without the key, you throw yourself into an atrocious half-backbend-like position, and start hunting under your seat. After what seems like an eternity, sweat pouring down your temple, you emerge with pacifier only to bear witness to two babies turning a beautiful shade of crimson and near possible spontaneous combustion. 
     This scenario may sound all to familiar to my moms out there. In our case, it was an ill fated trip to Applebees. It truly was youth and inexperience that led us to say, "Oh yes, a casual lunch before shopping sounds good." Ha! Those days are so over...well, for awhile anyway. Then again, do I really need  a giant bowl of artichoke dip all to myself again? butt  hips just voted no.
     Then again, if I ever do try and talk myself into it again, I'll do my best to conjure up the vision of the deep deep furrows on husband's forehead and the look of high alarm on his face as he quickly paid the check with one hand while my son screamed in the other. (If you're wondering what I was doing, it resembled a woman shoveling food in to-go boxes while her plump daughter squealed and did her best to grab big handfuls of what was going into said box.)
     All in all, we're growing and er...learning what's what around here, as we no longer play by previously established rules. Until next time Readers, hold onto those babies. You never know when they're plotting to launch something at someone's head.