Blab Blab Blab
  • Can I help you?

  • Categories

  • Archives


I love listening to Henry and Miranda talk with each other these days.

This morning, after I gave each one their yogurt cup at breakfast:

Henry: This is my yogurt. You have your yogurt, M’wanda?
Miranda: I have a yogurt!
Henry: Hi, M’wanda! You are my fwend? You are my fwend, M’wanda?
Miranda: My yogurt is cold.
Henry: Oh.

The other day in the car on the way to school:

Miranda: (raising up her toy, Simba-style) I have my tiger!
Henry: My see it, M’wanda?
Miranda: Henwee, you too far away.
Henry: My want to, M’wanda! My see it?
Miranda: You can’t see now, Henwee. You be paysent.
Henry: My not be paysent! My see it!

A few days ago, in the car (which is an easy place for eavesdropping). Henry is ‘singing.’

Miranda: Henwee! Be quiet!
Henry: My not be quiet, M’wanda.
Miranda: You boddering me, Henwee. You need be quiet!
Henry: My not be quiet. I singing!
Miranda (closing eyes): Ssssssssss, Henwee. It sweeping time. I sweeping. It quiet time.
Henry: It not sweeping time. It wake-up time!
Me: Henry, why don’t you sing a little more quietly? Can you be a little quieter for Miranda?
Henry: My not be quiet. My be LOUDER.

And he was.


An infiltrated dream

I used to be able to recall my dreams quite often, but lately — maybe because I’m always so bone tired — I have remembered close to none.

Except last night. Last night I had a dream about a large rodent loose in the house. It was my house, except it wasn’t, and my bed wasn’t my current bed, but the bed I had when I was little, complete with the quilt my mother made (which is currently lovingly folded and vacuum packed in a bag in my linen closet). But the bed wasn’t in the right place. And the room was the over-sized walk-in closet I used as a bedroom one summer at my father’s place. You know how it goes with dreams.

It was a twin-sized bed accommodating me and my six-foot-five husband. Not even an extra-long twin. Sorry, honey.

And the rodent? It jumped up onto the foot of the bed, which had just been turned down.

“This rat is giving me a headache!” I screamed in my dream, as we tried to trap it.

It scurried up the length of the bed, over the exposed sheets and all over the pillow.

“I’m going to be sick!” I cried. “The rat germs are making my head explode!”

It was then that I started to slowly climb back into reality. For what seemed like a good half hour (but was probably only a few minutes), I was extremely confused. Was my head really exploding? Was my left eyeball really in intense pain?

Um, yes. It was. Sometimes my migraines like to visit in the middle of the night, waking me up with a “Surprise! Did you miss me?” (Why, no. No, I did not, thank you very much.)

I managed to pathetically beg Jack to get me my migraine medication (I should really keep some by the bed), while trying to get into a more comfortable (as if!) position.

While I lay there, waiting for the coveted migraine medication to take effect, listening to the sounds of my husband drifting back to sleep, I couldn’t shake the image of that large rodent running all over my pillow. Gross.

I think it will be hard for me to separate rats from migraines for some time to come.


I’m in the kitchen, cleaning up and prepping dinner for tonight. Ethan is quietly playing in the other room, and Henry and Miranda are playing together — quite nicely, thank goodness — in the kitchen/playroom. I’m giggling at their conversation, and thankful that at least some of the things we try to teach them are sticking.

Henry: You give me da ball, ‘Anda?

Miranda: No! I hide it.

Henry: ‘Anda! Where da ball go? You give me it?

Miranda: No, Henwee. It my ball.

Henry: (getting agitated) ‘Anda! Give Henwee ball!

Miranda: Maybe you aks nice, Henwee?

Henry: Peese, ‘Anda? You play ball me, peese?

Miranda: Dats better, Henwee. You can have da ball now.

Henry: Tank you, ‘Anda! Tank you! Tank you!

Miranda: Welcome!

Manners weren’t just a nice thing to have in my house growing up, they were a requirement. There was never a reason to not have good manners, and when Mom wasn’t home, it almost felt like the copy of Miss Manners on the bookshelf kept us on track.

Sometimes, I think, turning into your mother isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

I love school!

Yesterday I took Henry and Miranda to their preschool to check out their classroom for the Meet-and-Greet hour. They got to check out their cubbies and play with toys. And oh! The toys! Two-year-old heaven is a room chock full of never-seen-before toys. When we left, they were both very concerned that we weren’t bringing their new nap mats with us.

“Your nap mats belong at school, guys,” I told them. “You get to actually use them IN school tomorrow? Won’t that be great?”

“YES!” was the resounding reply, though I’m sure they really were just responding to my excited tone.

Miranda's owl and Henry's monkey lunchboxes from Skip Hop, and Ethan's Planet Box lunchbox.

Later that evening, I found myself in the kitchen, staring at their lunchboxes, slightly paralyzed with the uncertainty of what to pack. While Miranda is definitely a better eater than Henry, there are just as many days as not that she eats a pitiful lunch. And Henry…oh, Henry. My pickiest eater. My little boy who refuses to eat bread, noodles, eggs. All things he used to eat until one day last summer when a switch flipped and he just…stopped eating everything that was put in front of him. My little guy who has a love affair with milk and thankfully — THANKFULLY — likes peanut butter. I cannot express just how relieved I was to find out there are no nut allergies in their classroom.

I really had no clue whether they would be willing to eat lunch at preschool, so I finally stopped stressing about it. (Miranda ended up eating all of her lunch, and Henry ate most. Guess I did okay!)

In the morning, after Jack and Ethan left the house, I got Miranda and Henry dressed, and reminded them to go upstairs and get their little animal pillows. They were practically falling over with the excitement of getting to bring them. In the car, they were each hugging their pillow.

“I take my pillow to school!!”

I tried getting them to stand still for a photo op outside the gate, but they were having none of that.

“Mommy, let’s GO!”

Through the gate they went, lunchboxes and pillows in hand. I watched them — full of confidence and milk — stride toward their classroom. And then hold back a little.

“Mommy, hold hand peese?” Henry asked.

“Of course, little guy,” I slipped my hand in his and we watched his sister wrestle her load while trying to open the door.

Dude, they're all official and stuff, now.

“Let me get that for you, sweetheart.”

Hesitation was tossed aside for the excitement of getting to place lunchboxes in cubbies.

“I’m going to go to work now, kiddos,” I said, ten minutes later.

“Bye, Mommy!” Henry yelled from across the room.

“Miranda — don’t forget to say goodbye to your Mommy,” Teacher Robin gently reminded. Miranda looked up from the stickering project she had started with Robin and giggled.

“Goodbye, Mommy!” She smiled.

At noon Robin reported in via text that both kids were doing great and didn’t once ask for me. I was both sad and elated.

They were, however, very excited to see me when I picked them up, based on the hugs I received.

On the way home, as Miranda slipped into slap-happy-dom, Henry sighed.

“I miss school.”


*(Yeah, okay, we’ll see how tomorrow goes.)

Welcome to the big, wide world

On Tuesday, Miranda and Henry will begin a new phase in their lives as official preschoolers. They’ve been talking about school for weeks, since we visited several times over the summer. They are excited. They seem ready. We’re all eagerly anticipating their first day.

But sweet anticipation is accompanied by bittersweet nostalgia.

Preschool starts; Christine stops.

Christine has been more than just a “nanny” to Henry and Miranda. She’s been an integral part of their lives for twenty-six of their twenty-eight and a half months. She’s been more than just witness to — she’s been part of — great things. First crawls and first steps, giggling fits and talking spurts. She’s cared for them through the fun, sweet, and loving moments, through the laughing and the dancing, but also through the runny noses, fevers, diaper-blowouts, and temper tantrums.

She was there when babies moved from one crib to two, when pureed food was first tasted, when the last bottles were consumed. She was there when first teeth came in, when hair grew long enough to need barrettes or get cut. She’s sorted through clothes, through toys, through the multitudes of baby paraphernalia that accompanies twins.

She’s been privy to our low moments, and happy for our highs.

She never was afraid to ask questions, and it didn’t take long for her to feel comfortable making suggestions… hesitant at first, to be sure. Now she makes executive decisions. What to keep and what to save (do we really need all these toys?). When to give up on a failing nap. How to mete out appropriate consequences for typical two-year-old shenanigans. She disciplines with a firm hand, but doles out hugs clearly backed by true affection. I think I can safely say she truly loves my children.

Yes, she is family.

I’ve spent the past two years thanking my lucky stars that Christine responded to our Sittercity ad. And we didn’t only get Christine, we got her sister, Amy, who has filled in when Christine was unavailable. Amy, who Miranda and Henry “call” on the phone when they are playing, had never held a baby before holding mine, and now she is a pro. I feel a certain sense of pride in knowing that not only did these two wonderful sisters play a pivotal role in the beginnings of my babies’ lives, but also in the knowing that they’ve learned important skills from the very children for whom they were caring.

On Monday, Christine is going to meet us at the preschool to keep me company in watching Henry and Miranda explore their new classroom during the meet-and-greet hour, and then she’ll take them out to lunch. She’ll bring them home, give them kisses, and officially end an era.

The next day is the first real day of preschool. No more hanging out at home with Mommy just in the other room. No more only having to share with each other. No more Christine-nanny-care. Welcome to the big, wide world, kiddos.

I refuse to say goodbye. Things won’t be the same, but it won’t be goodbye. Right?


Dammit, right.