Y2K8

Remember Y2K? New Years Eve 1999. The Man and I were dating and were downtown at a party. I remember the countdown and being surprised that the lights didn’t go out and nothing exploded at midnight. I walked to the window to look out at the city, and everything was as it had been. I think I was kind of disappointed after all the fanfare, the months of speculation, that there wasn’t even a flicker. This was us in the wee hours of the new millennium.
Four years and one wedding later, there were 2 babies on the way by New Years Eve 2003. My due date wasn’t until February 18, but the twins were ready to come and I was camped out in the hospital, waiting for their arrival.
I have no shame. Seriously, who does this? Nobody is holding a gun to my head. I am freely sharing this photo with the world. Why am I doing this? I must be crazy. Or alone on New Years Eve because my husband has to work. Yeah, that must be it.

The twins came 2 days later. And January 2 forever marked my before and after; the space in between ‘just me’ and ‘mommy’; the day held by neither side.

And so I am a bit of a sentimental sap. Because now, New Year’s Eve no longer just represents the last day of the year. It is the day before the day before our lives changed forever. So I guess our dramatic Y2K came a few years late…our world was tilted on its axis a bit and all sense of control was lost with that first cry. I can’t remember life before them. I can’t imagine life without them.

I apologize for any nightmares you may have as a result of the above photo. And as long as I’m documenting New Year’s Eve’s, here’s another from earlier tonight to take your mind of the alien stomach. And yes, that is a banana peel on my mantle. And a baggie of cheerios. And Christmas garland with all the froofroo taken out because I’ve only half-way un-decorated…The Nester would not approve. So happy new year to you. Now I’m off to plan a birthday party for a couple of four year olds.

mr. clean

Here he is on Christmas day. Just a few hours earlier, he had opened his gifts…or should I say ‘gift’. That’s right. The dust buster was a hit. A HIT, I tell you.

After a brief tutorial, he was ready.

He dust busted the toys.

He dust busted the ottoman…see how fast he goes? Look at him bust that dust!

He dust busted up.

He dust busted down.

He dust busted the kitchen table…

…with a respectable pause just long enough to check out the truck that daddy conveniently placed half-opened within his reach.

And then later, when it was time to snuggle before bed, well…you get it. [Please ignore the fact that he still uses a bottle before he goes to bed. I know he is 18 months old. I know he is going to have buck teeth. I know, I KNOW. But...he's a baby. He's my baby, my last baby...because I will not be pregnant again. (Notice how I recently included pregnancy in a list that also included depression, starvation, and homelessness. I do not want to be pregnant again.) ok. Brackets and parenthesis are over.]

So much for trucks. That truck was purple, anyway. Meanwhile, in other Christmas present news, there were 2 very happy little twins on Christmas night.
No, she’s not scared of it. Yes, she did sleep with it. No, it isn’t soft. Yes, it is made of rubber. And yes, it was covered with a pink blanket to keep it warm in the night.

do you see what i see?

This is my son. I think we will call him Baby until he finds a girl and gets married and has babies of his own. And maybe even after that. This is a rotten photo…the lighting and such. But it had to be posted for all to see. DO YOU SEE? My son is playing with polly pocket clothes. And loving it. It’s nothing new, really. This morning he was walking happily along in pink, plastic high heels. He does surprisingly well in them. He is the classic over-looked, under-bought-for 3rd child. Boy toys are limited in our house. Poor baby.

I am happy to report that an assortment of trains, trucks and tools are waiting under our tree for his masculine delight. And a pretend dust buster. He loves the dust buster.

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