My kids are getting older and it's time to start getting them more active in sports and such, though the thought of being a soccer/hockey/football/any kind of sport mom leaves me feeling quite sick to my stomach. 

Bedtime is generally not my best time.

At this time I am tired, overwhelmed, overstimulated and in some desperate need of some quality introvert time. I don't want to fight people to go to bed.   I want them to realize that their internal clock is striking, march themselves up, tuck themselves in (at which point I will gladly deliver a memorable good night kiss, story or what have you) and fall into a blissful state of sleep.

This is so far from reality, it almost makes me chuckle reading it.

All the kiddos (save for Macky, fingers crossed) pretty much suck at bedtime.  There is lots of complaining, fighting, whining and resisting that goes on but, admittedly, Morty and George, my beloved dynamic duo, have been a run for my bedtime money since their gestational heydays.

In pregnancy, they used to wrestle at night, causing many sleepless nights for Mommy.

As infants they suffered from some hardcore reflux and colic which left them crying and puking for hours on end for months.

As toddlers, they feared bed.  They would often only enter slumber after passing out from screaming for hours—only to wake up a short time after with night terrors and confusion...and more crying.

Now, as preschoolers, they are still difficult to get to bed in that they are rather high maintenance, but there is far less drama involved.

At times, I wish that they could just go to sleep on their own without the aid of a "grown up," but the reality is that this (save for the annoying days where many struggles ensue) is really their last piece of babyhood.

Gone are the cribs, diapers, bottles, nuks.  Even their beloved monkeys and blankeys have taken a back seat in favor of ladders and tool boxes.

Bedtime is the only time that they really revert to their baby-like status where they are no longer "worker men," but boys in need of some cuddles.

Lately they have been falling asleep cuddled up next to me on the couch watching "man shows."  While I realize that this could possibly be construed as a bad habit to get into, I think of it as a passing phase that I will miss when it is over. 

Granted, I know that their desire to cuddle isn't so much about me, but about the fact that a few months ago they decided they wanted to sleep "lonely" instead of snuggled up together as they had since birth. 

My hunch is that they did this because they thought they should, rather than what they really wanted and now they're really not feeling it and are able to cuddle more easily if they are left to sleep together on the couch.  We will often find them still laying head to head or feet to feet when left to their own devices. Tonight, for example, they are sounded asleep with their legs intertwined and happy as can be.

I forget, at times, how hard it is to grow up and, when having a moment of clarity, realize that I have zero concept of what it is like to grow up with an identical twin.

I wonder if things are more difficult for them and thus more difficult for me because they not only have to separate from me, but also from each other—which, truthfully, seems to be an exceptionally hard fight for them, often leading them to declarations of wanting to do more and more things "lonely" (regardless of how unhappy this makes them).

Eventually I know that they will grow up and live completely separate lives (a fact that make me embarrassingly sad) so for now I am trying to help them through their struggles while simultaneously embracing their last remnants of babyhood.

I know that they won't cuddle me, feet to feet or head to head while watching "man shows" forever. Eventually they'll be too embarrassed to cuddle me, or each other, at all. 

So for now I'm going to take what I can get and live it up with my boys, my couch and my HGTV.  Real sleep will come later.  Babyhood never comes back.

I've recently rediscovered music.  Weird, I know.  But the past few years have been such a blur that I haven't had time or energy for anything, much less leisurely hours spent flipping through my fantabulously arranged playlists. 

Now days through the magic of YouTube and online learning that I studiously log in to, but go to impressive lengths to avoid engaging in, I have once again been connecting with my inner angst through song.

Problem is, I just don't feel the music like I used to.

Way, way, back in my youth, like the late 90's, I was positive that the music was written for me; that the lyrics explained my life; that I needed the music just to get through my the variety of emotions that bombarded me hourly.

Everything I did had it's own soundtrack. Many times this soundtrack was the message that played for my pager, yes, pager in hopes that the caller would "get" the message.

Most of my playlists of old included sickeningly sappy love songs, some exceptionally embarrassing chinese melodies (don't ask) and the ever present rap of my suburban, middle class white girl rebelion.

Basically, if anyone other than those who went through the same phase at the same time (aka my since disbanded clique of friends) heard these songs—especially in my chosen order—they would either run away in horror or hysteria. 

The really embarrassing part of this is that I actually still like these songs and they still can bring back memories that had previously been long forgotten—usually for a pretty good reason.

What I'm looking for now is songs that I can relate to. Songs that can create the new soundtrack for my new, grown up, permanent life.

This shouldn't be that hard given that my previous choices really did not relate in the tiniest bit to my real life.

As much as I liked to believe that TuPac really understood me and was devastated when he died (and still wear the RIP t-shirt my mom got me for my mourning period) there, shockingly, isn't really any common ground in our lives.

The same goes for the countless love songs that I have devoted hours and hours of life, tears and time to. 

Can a person who married the first person she actually dated really have that much experience with a broken heart? 

I think not. 

Sure, there were a handful of unrequited loves thrown in the mix, but the depth of my heartbreak music is really quite impressive. One, two or even ten songs would have been sufficient. Not 200.

So, what this leaves me wondering is if I have crossed that invisible line into old age where I really believe that the music now just isn't as good as when I was a youngin, or is it me who has changed?

Is there a way to really feel music in your life when you are living a life of domestic tranquility?  Do you need some kind of raw emotions to really connect with lyrics in the same way?

If this is the case, I'll happily wait for someone to write me a song about a body gone wrong, the sleep that's not had and the days that are rapidly passing.

Until then, I guess I'll just have to put my "When I was your age" speech to early (and frequent) use.

Holy Mother of God I am about to lose whatever is left of my everlovin mind.

If I have to listen to one more hour of  Nickolodeon or Disney, break up one more completely ridiculous fight, take one more 2x4 out of an assailants hands, clean up one more mess, here one more complaint of "it's too hoooooooot out"...I'm gonna lose it completely.

Now, I am usually a rather rational human being that seems to thrive on the chaos and constant busyness of my life and miss my children dearly when they are away from me, but even I, dear reader, have limits.

I don't care if I gestated you, squeezed you from my body, nurtured you with my milk and love you to pieces...GET THE %^$S AWAY FROM ME AND STOP TALKING FOR JUST ONE MINUTE!!!

Now, I don't actually say this to my little love muffins, but I am afraid I am getting close.  After a summer of family togetherness, I am on a 22 day countdown until school and those days better move FAST.

No longer can I watch the same 5 episodes of whatever ridiculous overly-laugh tracked show that the kids channels are hyping at full volume. 

(They weren't funny the first time and they sure as hell aren't funny the 20th).

No longer can I deal with the day long fights about who "gets" the cars, trucks, motorcycles, vans, bikes that drive past us on the road

(REALLY, you don't "GET" any of them so JUST STOP FIGHTING!!).

No longer can I deal with the really fun game of "If I throw this at you and you retaliate I'm just going to fling my exceptionally heavy, shrieking body on Mommy for protection"

(Because in all honesty, if you threw the toy/hit the kid/did whatever stupid action to start the fight, I really don't feel that sorry for you.)

No longer can I deal with the "recipes" that are left for me to clean up when it is discovered that they actually don't that good. 

(You should really listen to me when I say that cool whip, peanut butter, yogurt and chocolate don't actually make a good soup—I know what I'm talking about.)

No longer can I deal with the constant complaints of hotness, sunshine, humidity, sweatiness, etc.

(Suck it up already! The heat is not here to attack you! Talk to me about how hot your are when its -20 with 6 ft of snow)

Sure I'll miss the good times we had—the trips to the pool and the beach, the leisurely days playing and hanging out, but at this point summer has run it's course and we are craving the return of routines.

We need a chance to miss each other—to appreciate the good parts rather than focusing on the parts that drive us nuts. 

We need a chance to realize that we actually like each other and weren't put on this earth for the sole purpose of making each other miserable. 

We need a chance to remember (and appreciate) what quiet actually sounds like.

Here's to you Summer of 2011—we came, we swam, we ice creamed—now you are free to move on to those lovely crisp days of fall where school bells (and mothers) everywhere rejoice.

1.  Having children call my cell phone incessantly from the house phone while standing in another room just to screech in my ear.  I can hear you just fine without the added technology.

2.  Any form of brother on brother peeing.

3.  Dump it—no matter what it is that is being dumped or where said stuff is being dumped, I don't like the practice in general.

4.  Watching you tear down the hill on your bikes at top speed and then having you sit at the bottom and scream for me to push you up. 

5.  Being locked out of the house and or bathroom is never-ever funny.

6.  Walking in a room to hear water running—especially with the all too familiar sound of it splashing on the floor

7.  Messing up of recently cleaned rooms

8.  Coloring on anything but specifically designated coloring paper including, but not limited to walls, couches, tables and each other

9.   Playing with my belly while giggling and shouting about how chubby I am.

10.  Drinking the bath water—especially after brother on brother peeing.

For the past year of my life I have been obligated to spend a ridiculous amount of time "reflecting" about various elements of my course work.  To do this, I had to answer the same questions over and over again in effort to "dig deeper,"  "push myself" and "connect the material to my life."  At the time, this was a much mocked practice between my classmates and myself—especially when we were later required to reflect on other's reflections and then reflect on the reflection we received.  This all seemed like such a waste of time.

Now that I have been out of class for a few weeks, I have found myself missing having an obligation to reflect simply because it forced me to think and, probably most importantly, write. 

While I think that being required to answer the exact same questions week after week, I have to admit it is helpful to have a point value attached to the process because, lets face it, I'm a slave to any point system—add a deadline in there and I am in procrastination/pressure heaven.

Living in a land without deadlines means I simply get nothing done—that I am, as far as writing goes, braindead.  I have tried to create deadlines for myself and my writing, but I ultimately know that I am not accountable to anyone but myself so I don't do anything.  I wonder if there is a way to create the sense of pressure that schooling or work create without having to deal with all the other unpleasantness because I'm afraid that without it, I will waste every spare second of my time thinking that I'll write something great...later.

I am now 30 years old.  With this advanced age, one would think that I would have learned a few life lessons.  Sure, I know how to balance a checkbook, know when to drive and when to get a ride, know when to fight and when to let it go, but I have yet to learn that there's a time to be cheap and there's a time to be lazy, but they should never go together.

Cheap and lazy separately are delightful indulgences that can create wealth, peace, happiness and a vast number of other things.

Together, they create problems, as evidenced by my latest hair style of white streaks and orange blotches, strangely reminiscent of my 7th grade year.

As I stared at the mirror at my self imposed monstrosity (I at least had a beauty school to blame for the early 90's snafu), I couldn't help but wonder how I had sunk so low to let this happen.

Now, it is not simply the highlighting at home that got me—I've been doing my own hair for a long time with somewhat acceptable results—it was the fact that I was crunched for time (aka, lazy) and got seduced by the "brand new innovative design that delivers foolproof professional results in half the time." 

Puh-lease. 

Yes the little nifty wand thing was cool looking.  In theory, I can see how it would aid in even spreading of bleach...I can even see how, again, theoretically, it could save me the time of pulling the little strands out of that sexy cap, but the reality was much different.

The first application left me with yellow highlighter stands with sexy orange roots.

Brooklyn said I looked like a zebra.

The second application spread out the yellow and added some orange streaks.

Momo upgraded me to "orange like my monkey," which, depending on the context, could possibly be considered a high compliment.

The third application evened things out, but left me looking a wee bit like a hooker or a stripper with a platinum top and a darker bottom.

Grandma screamed when she saw me.

The fourth application brought me scarily close to where I started, albeit 2 days and some odd dollars later.

While I did get to practice coming up with a witty back story to why my hair was so horrid including mid-life yearnings for junior high and a girl crush on T-Boz, I basically was screwed by my cheapness and my laziness (not to mention my rehab needing addiction to all things commercially driven, especially when involving big shiny letters..). 

What I have learned through this experience (plus a mini lecture from my beloved on how there comes to be a certain age where you just don't do this to yourself anymore...I had previously missed that memo) is that it might be worth it to suck it up, plop down the money, cut out the time and have someone else do my hair.

By doing that, I could have had a couple hours to myself and a head full of evenly colored, non hooker hair.  If I even wanted, I could have chosen a salon who's advertisements I found especially appealing, just to get my fix.

I'd like to declare that my lesson has been learned and I will no longer subject myself to this torture, but in all honesty, we'll just have to see when the roots come a calling again—the seduction of the hair care isle might be too much to resist.

My house has fallen victim to negativity.  We are constantly talking about what is wrong, what needs to be changed, what is challenging and very rarely, if ever, think about what is going right.

Part of this comes from the make-up of our family.  With so many people in one house, the vast majority of them being 5 and under, craziness is an expectation rather than an exception. 

On any given day there is fighting, mess making, yelling, not listening and many other normal kid behaviors that likely happen in every other house across America—the problem with my house is that these behaviors seem more intense, more unruly and more problematic simply because of the sheer number of kids who potentially exhibit the same behaviors at the same time or because of the fact that if every kid has the potential to act out one out of every five times that we go out, we could potentially have a spazzing kid on every outing.

At any given time, one child can be acting out, which might produce a chain reaction and lead other children to act out resulting in pure chaos, but, when considering the root of the issue: children freaking out, is that really any more different than in a household that has less children?

Should my children be held to a different standard because of how many of them there are? Or should their developmental trajectory be appreciated and nurtured regardless of the annoyance or discomfort it causes the adults?

For instance, yesterday we went to a 1^st grade concert and the twins had problems sitting still and listening.  They were antsy and vocal about their distaste for the music.  Their behavior was not uncommon, I believe that many newly turned 3 year olds would have struggled similarly, but because there were 2 of them doing the same thing, the attention was more focused on us.  Because there were 2 of them, it appeared that we had no control over the kids.  Because there were 2 of them, it seems like the idea that “we can’t take them anywhere” was really true.

The idea that I can’t take them anywhere or that people won’t like them because of their behavior is by far the most common thing I hear, which, while completely unfounded because we DO go many places very successfully thankyouverymuch, is harmful because it makes me hyper aware of all their behaviors, which makes me, mean, which makes them act out and so on.

At times, I find myself correcting their behaviors in public when they aren’t actually acting up, which can then cause them to be uncomfortable and freak out. 

For instance, in the past two days I have taken 5 kids to the dentist and 4 kids for checkups and shots with no incidents…in fact, they were pretty stellar, if I’m completely honest.  But during each situation I was constantly correcting behaviors that didn’t need to be corrected (like talking a lot, asking why and playing while they were waiting for the others to finish up), which started to fire up their innate rebellion, which started to intensify behaviors.  As soon as I backed off and let them be, they went back to perfectly civilized human beings who were actually complimented on their behavior.

So I guess  all I ask is give me a break people. If I were able to do anything mathematically besides add and figure percentage discounts when shopping, I’d wow you with some kick ass statistics that show my kids are just the same as everyone else.

For my part, I’m going to start sticking up for my kids instead of bowing to the pressure.  I’m going to make an effort to assure them that they are fine and dandy and that the rest of the world is stupid.  Sure this might cause other issues down the road, but I’d rather battle those later on than have them deal with the feelings of being abnormal.