Thursday, February 17, 2011

Someone.. Call For Backup

Hello Readers,

      Baby gate? Check. Plastic locking thingy? Check. Catcher's mitt?...ah yes...Check! OK, it looks like I'm locked and loaded for another day with the twins. Because these days, I have to be thoroughly prepared before stepping into the danger zone. One doesn't simply stroll into the Outback without a boomerang or large game net, into the Wild West without a six shooter, into the Miss America Pagent without duct tape...Supplies man. You need supplies. That, an industrial-strength broom for what needs to be swept away after the dust settles.
     With the exception of knitting, cooking, and Tae Bo, I'm a pretty quick learner. And that's a good thing because the twins are taking me on a crash course, specifically designed to illustrate how quickly a home can be taken apart, from the inside out, using nothing but their fat little baby paws. Or as I like to call them...Chubby fingers of destruction.

    Just when I feel as though I've got a good handle on what's going on, it turns out that I'm pathetically wrong. Up until now, I was a certified master of bottle-making, nap time delegation and entertaining the wee ones. The immobile wee ones. But now that moving has been thrown into the mix, the babes have successfully pushed me into a constant state of anticipation. Whether it be a baby mitt creeping up my leg, while I make lunch, or an unexpected "Wham!" into my ankle, by the rolly walker, while making the same lunch....I'm on my guard.
     Oh yes, and if you happen to consider yourself an extremely organized, HGTV aspiring, in-home organizer/designer....you'll never survive. Dear Genevieve...just sit this one out. Or at least pop a Valium before, because you may need it. Why? It could be the landslide of dog food creeping out into the living room, the backs of tv remotes constantly missing,  the spackle of  toys neatly sealing-in the undercarriage of your couch, or, my personal favorite, the volcanic eruption of that neatly organized basket, of dvds, under your console. You didn't need the third season of Lost anyway (I mean, c'mon..nothing happens.), right?? Rip, rip, rip, rip
     The big development this week, the wooden baby gate. A necessity by all accounts. And the reasoning's simple. When not taking things apart, as a team, Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid  are scaling the stairs, like the tiny mountain goats they are, in hot pursuit of their next adventure.  And although husband's warned me against it time and time again, I watched yet another tragic story of deaths resulting from falling down the stairs. Ugh. So now I'm terrified of the unthinkable.
     So the gate stays up, and I'm left looking like a hurtle-jumper with jock itch. But you gotta do what you gotta do. The kids are safe, and the babypocolypse is quarantined to just the downstairs. Goodbye Pottery Barn lifestyle, our brief affair was beautiful. At this point, I'm going to have to leave you for Nike...and just do it.


Until Next Time Readers!