Hey Part-Timer!

When I worked in The Firm From Hell, the guys would call one of the women that worked there "Part-Timer".  She did work part-time, after all.  She had two school aged children and she worked Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and she sometimes left early for certain events or if one of the kids was sick.  I laughed along with the rest when she would stand at the time clock at two minutes to five, card in hand, and be out the door precisely at five o’clock on the dot.

When I started working for my current boss (hereinafter, "B"), I didn’t have children.  I wasn’t even certain that I was ready to have children on the day that I accepted employment.  I worked full time and I stayed late when necessary, to work on a particularly complicated case or to prepare for an upcoming trial.  I was still contemplating going back to school and, though I was no longer passionate about the idea, I was a hard worker, ambitious and anxious for more.

But soon after, the switch flipped.  I’ve mentioned before that one day I was a child-germ-a-phobe.  I didn’t know how to speak kid, I hadn’t been introduced to muffin-top yet and I enjoyed life as one half of a childless couple.  And then, the next day my body teemed with child fever. Just like that.

In the beginning, it was an A and B conversation.  Only the two of us knew what the plan was and that’s how we liked it.  But, as the months went by, we were forced to introduce C and D and L and Q into the conversation and it became a veritable collaboration of people involved in our baby-making process.  And, as such, I was required to skip more and more days at work.  When it became obvious that we were jumping from one plan to The Plan, I knew that I couldn’t cover up my absences with excuses like veterinarian appointments and the ever growing litany of auto ailments.  I had to tell B why I would need so much time off over the next month.  I admit that I was apprehensive about it because this is a woman who had stellar universities and extensive tours of duty with the Army and other government agencies under her belt.  She was a no-nonsense kind of woman who worked eleventy million hours a week and saw her children only when they would visit her at the office.  But she couldn’t have been more kind and understanding.  She had been there, she knew what I was was going through and she empathized with me.

Months later, when I was six months heavy and went into pre-term labor, she urged me not to worry about the office or my duties.  And, when I called her, with a baby in each arm, I stumbled over words and made absolutely no sense at all when I attempted to ask her if she would agree to me working part-time when I returned to work.  I say attempted because the minute I sensed hesitation in her voice, I faltered and told her I might be able to work something out with regard to child care.  Days later, I cowardly left a voicemail that it looked like I would not be able to come back full time.  Oh, and by the way, I’m taking another month of maternity leave.  Thanks.  Bye.

It goes without saying that everything changed when I had the girls.  My life was always full and had purpose and meaning Before The Beans, but now, it was different.  It was more.  It was indescribable and I discovered that I was born to be a mother.  Or, more specifically, to be their mother. 

Last weekend my dad was, to quote my mother, "the sickest [I’ve] ever seen him in thirty-five years,".  We were at the Shelby Township Art Fair when my sister called me to tell me that my mom was trying to get a hold of me and they were headed for the emergency room.  I yanked the girls away from the face-painting table and called my mom.  She sounded confused, nervous.  She said that she would call me from the hospital and asked that I come as soon as she called.  It’s a call that, as the years go by and I begin to see the age in my eyes and theirs, I had been preparing for.  Or, at least, preparing to prepare for.  They are only fifty-seven years young and they look and act even younger, but neither are completely healthy.  My mother, tiny and frail, suffers from diabetes.  My father, just opposite, smokes and loves his food and drink as much as the next person.  So, when the call came, I went.  There wasn’t a doubt.  J stayed back with the girls and only had to call me once to lay down the law via speaker phone.

I was gone for four days.  He was in the hospital for four days.  Of those four days, I had previously scheduled two off work in order to take the girls to see The Wiggles and to go to a couple of doctor’s appointments.  It doesn’t matter really, those were my days.  They were scheduled.  The other two days were not.  I emailed B from the emergency room at around 8:00 p.m. Sunday night, to give her a head’s up and to let her know that I wouldn’t be in on Monday.  I left the hospital at around midnight.  I didn’t return to work until Friday.  Without anyone to watch the girls while my mom was by my dad’s bedside, I really had no choice, aside from dragging the girls to the office, plopping them in chairs and shutting my office door to contain them and their squeals.  Oh wait.  I could have had my mom park them in the hospital lounge. 

Or, as B told someone (who told me), I could have found a back up.  Spite and disappointment might have me misquoting her.  Or it might not.  Nevertheless, you get the picture.

When I flew into a rage after hearing what was said, that someone told me I needed to just let it go.  But I can’t.  Two days later, I’m still fuming.  As a mother, a working mother, I expected more from B.  I hoped that I’d be on the fringes of the SAHM/WOHM debate by (barely) juggling my part-time career with my full-time family.  I can’t imagine how I could survive as a SAHM, and at the same time, I know I could never keep it together at the pace of a full-time working woman.  I am lucky that I have two mothers that so willingly sacrifice their free time to care for their grandchildren.  And even luckier to have an employer that is amenable to my ala carte schedule.  But, I think I only have this luxury because I started out as that ambitious, career-minded full-timer.  Had I interviewed as the mother of twin toddlers, slightly frazzled, almost put-together, requesting early hours and warning that it would be me and not J that would stay home with the children and take them to appointments, B would have graciously passed.  I would have been punished for putting my family before my career. 

Motivation or a Sad, Sad Cry for Help?

Day 1 was easy.  Except for the Fed Ex guy bringing my shoes from Endless which, of course, I had to try on in the middle of the twenty minute workout.  They are for the wedding, after all, which is why I made this painful ultimatum to myself.  Trying to walk in 3.5 inch heels are, in itself, a workout.  But trying to fit into this is what’s at stake here.

Oh, and except for two Beans who insisted on participating and barking orders like, "Lift your head up Momma!  Like her!" and "Kick harder Momma!  Like this!" 

We’ll see how it goes.  Either I’ll be posting, reading and shopping on the Internet to my heart’s content or my sweet Delly will wander the days lonesome for a warm touch and a willing lap.  At least, by making my ultimatum to myself public, I’m a little accountable, right?

Let’s hope so.  Ten pounds to go.

My Free Day

On Saturday, I had what I haven’t had in over two and a half years. A day to myself.

Last year, J and I went on vacation without the Beans, but I still had obligations. I was still required to care for someone. Occasionally, I get a chance to catch up with friends, but I may bring the girls along.

But this day…this day was mine to do whatever I wanted. Earlier in the week, my parents informed me that they’d be taking the Beans to a friend’s new ice cream shop and then to the park. That’s what they do. They take my children and I’m welcome to come along if I like. This time, I said no. This Saturday was also J’s required Saturday to work, so I was going to be all alone until 5:00 p.m. My toes curled in anticipation!

I dropped the girls off at my parents’ in the morning after we saw J off to work. They asked again if I’d like to come along and I shook my head a little too hard, I think. This day was mine! I told J and myself that I would use it to give the house a much needed spring cleaning and I repeated the prepared speech to my parents as I skipped out of their house, barely stopping to plant light kisses on the tops of my Beans’ heads. Beans who had already dismissed me and were busy convincing their grandparents that they should leave for ice cream immediately.

When I got in the car and turned my mix from the iPod on, I sighed. Free. For the day at least. I thought about what I would do next. Did I really want a nap at 11:00 a.m.? Maybe. Instead, I drove over to Starbucks and indulged in an iced coffee. After that, I wandered over to the mall to get my eyebrows waxed and return an outfit that I had planned on wearing to Tracy’s shower. When I arrived at the salon, I was told that there was a half hour wait. Pfft! I’m waiting for no one today! It’s my day. I tried on a couple of tops without having to crawl under dressing room doors to find one girl or to shush another who is about to shout something inappropriate [Side note: This has been happening a lot lately! Example: When seeing an elderly woman walking towards us at Costco, Maggie exclaimed, “Look at that angry face, Momma!”] and I walked right by Children’s Place without a moment’s thought. And, I bought something! For myself!

After the mall, I drove over to the nursery just up the street from our house. I wandered slowly up and down the aisles, trying to determine which species of flowers I wouldn’t kill the quickest. I smiled as exasperated parents ran after mischievous children. I picked out four flats, waited in a ridiculously long line and finally made it home with my purchases.

I knew the girls would be upset if I didn’t save some impatiens for them to plant, so I spent most of the remaining part of my day planting the flowers around the deck. Without interruption. Every once in awhile, I stood back and admired my work, sure that I would never have been able to get so much done with Beans and J around.

Satisfied with my gardening, I collapsed on the couch to give Max and Avery some much needed puppy love. Too soon, the phone rang and my dad informed me that they were home and the girls were hungry. For food, for me and for J. I lingered around the house a little longer than I needed to and then made my way back to my parents’ house. The girls were happy to see me and to tell me about their day. They didn’t miss me one bit.

I didn’t tell anyone that my eyes welled up a little on the escalator at the mall. Behind a little girl and her mom, I eavesdropped as they discussed plans to meet up with her daddy for lunch. And, I didn’t tell anyone that my final decision on flowers were the Jelly Bean mix of petunias because of their appropriate name and because they contained both blue and yellow flowers. M&A will tell anyone who wants to know that their favorite colors are blue and yellow, respectively. And, finally, I didn’t tell anyone that, as nice as it was to spend the day alone and free of responsibility, I’d really rather spend it wiping sticky faces, chasing runaways, sharing iPods and just plain being with my Beans.

Babysitter Fees

After I got off the phone, I emailed J.

“Can you call me? I need to talk to you about the Bean.”

“Which one? Calling now…”

As I replied, “The ice ice baby,” the phone rang.

J: “What’s up?”

MB: “I talked to Rose at Dr. K’s. It was so sweet; because the first thing she did when I gave my name was to ask me how the girls were.”

My eyes began to well up immediately, as they did when she had asked me and I stammered a reply about how big and wonderful they have become. I don’t know if the women at that office experience this with all the patients that they treat, but whenever I have any interaction with them, my heart swells and my eyes brim with tears. They could just be asking how my day is, or sending me their new office information. They just have that sort of effect on me.

MB: “I told her that we discovered that both of our Flexible Spending Accounts covers the fee. She was happy to hear that but warned me that the fees are going up this year.”

J: “How much?”

MB: “Four hundred dollars.”

J: “Okay. How much were they before?”

MB: “Two hundred and fifty per year.”

J: “Pay it.”

MB: “Oooohhhkaaay….Pay it? And then what?”

J: “What do you mean? Pay it.”

MB: “It’s just…I mean…What are we doing here? What’s the plan?”

J: “I don’t know what the plan is but I know that I want us to keep paying it until we do.”

MB: “Okay. Okay.”

J: “I’ve got to go. Love you.”

I mumbled something and hung up the phone. This time, hot tears were spilling onto the desk and I couldn’t catch them with just a swipe of the hand.

You see, I technically have three Beans. On that day…January 13, 2005, I was asked to decide whether I wanted two or three. I chose three. J and Dr. K disagreed. Dr. K said that with my diagnosis, the chances of all three of them sticking around were better than most. And, because of my size, the chances of me having a smooth pregnancy with three were slim. All that I remember Jim saying was, “No, no, no…” And when Dr. K used the term, “selective reduction,” I began to fade.

Two then. I chose two. The “best” you could say, as these two looked to be the strongest and most developed of the three. They received an “A” on their report card, while the third Bean received a “B”. Still above average but not good enough? Not to me, but I went along with it. So, while the two As were being prepared to return to me, the B was sent back to the lab, to be frozen and labeled and stowed away to a day yet to be determined. For when my arms would begin aching again and my heart would resume longing for the fullness of a child’s body in my own.

Every year, when I receive the bill, I am reminded that I left one behind. And that I must make that decision eventually. The choices are these: to thaw it and hope that it survives the thaw and implants into my womb; to donate it to another couple; to donate it to science or to simply destroy it. Destroy. It’s such a cruel word and made even worse when I look into the eyes of my girls. Part of them. Conceived at the exact same time with all of the hope and the love that we had to give. Saved, just in case the first time didn’t work. And, now, in case we want another.

It’s a political matter, what to do with these frozen little ice cubes. One that, if I were another woman altogether, who didn’t go through what I have gone through to have my children, may be a simple matter. Destroy might not be as soul crushing a word. But I am not that woman. I am the woman that believes that the miracle that happened to us twice could still happen again. I am the mother that believes that my other child could still return to me.

And so, every year, when I receive the bill. I am reminded that I left one behind. And that one day it will be the right time for it to return to me.

Diary of a tired Momma Bean

Today I thought about potty-training again. Now that I’m down to only half a sleeve of diapers, I’m almost motivated to begin the “talk” again with Mags. Forget Peanut. She’s indicated to me in no uncertain terms that I should just LAY OFF.

Last night, I contemplated making a from scratch nutritious dinner. When I opened the freezer to take out some chicken, I spied the hot dogs. Hot dogs = full beans. Hey, at least I served it with a side of peas and carrots.

I can’t ask much of myself lately. I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck and all I want to do is crawl into my jammies and under my blankies and sleep for a week. With everything that’s happened with Arisa and her family and the fact that I’ve up and moved to a new company altogether with my boss (which includes a longer commute, an earlier wake-up time and an immediate cease and desist of my Pumas/khakis uniform), I’d really love to find my life’s pause button. But I’m busy finding the blue sippy cup (because a two and a half year old doesn’t want to hear the excuse of why you didn’t do the dishes last night) and thinking of a creatively fabulous zero calorie four course dinner.

And because I don’t want to concentrate hard enough to invite the migraine that’s been knocking on the door of my head, I thought I’d answer Huckdoll’s tag from what seems like five years ago. (Sorry girlie - I know you’re going through your own thing right now. xox)

Here are the instructions:
1. Pick up the nearest book ( of at least 123 pages).
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people. & post a comment here once you post it to your blog, so I can come see.

“Potty Training Sucks” by Janne Kimes, with Linda Sonna, Ph.D.

Yes. Seriously. And, no, I have no finished it. Read the title again. ‘Nuff said.

Page 123: When wiping your young one’s derriere, the challenge is that her butt is either sitting down on a potty where you can’t get to it, or standing up where her butt cheeks are clenched tighter than Joan Rivers’ face. You have to do some fancy moves to get the goods. If your kid likes to sit down to be wiped, have her lean forward.

Um.

You can’t make crap like this up. No pun intended.

Hopefully Page 123 isn’t a reflection of the rest of the book, because I learned absolutely nothing that is going to help me train these Beans.

And, I’m tagging everyone who is reading this that is willing and able. I’m tired and I have to find a blue sippy cup.

I’m cool like that.

I was discussing new! and edgy! music with my cousin the other day and I was feeling oh so ahead of the times. I can’t take all the credit because I get a lot of suggestions from others who are way cooler than me. I sent him along to lastfm and told him to look up this artist or that group. And, because I thought of it, I sent an invite to my other cousin, who has similar taste in music as me, so that we could share playlists and so that I could point her in the direction of my friend, who’s musical finds are always ahead of the pack.

And then I looked at my playlist.

The Wiggles are my top artist of the week.

Laurie Berkner is up there too. And Jack Johnson. Though I don’t view him as a musician for children, clearly he’s big in their world and I’ll admit that the album I was listening to is entitled Sing Alongs and Lullabies from the Movie Curious George. I’ve got a few interesting picks on my list but I think you lose street cred when a band whose groupies include three year olds, dinosaurs and octopi is at the top of your list.

And there’s this: whenever I fill out a meme (which I’m wont to complete when clients put a pause on their financial ruins and work is slow) and one of the questions is, “What is your favorite song?” I’m so tempted to give this as my answer.

Listen to it and I dare you to tell me you don’t tap your feet to it!

To make matters worse, I’m going to my first concert since Aerosmith, the night before my wedding shower. Seven years ago. No, I’m not going to see Foo Fighters, Matchbox Twenty or Ingrid Michaelson.

On Friday, we’re taking the Beans to see “Elmo Makes Music”. Should be fun. Aside from the fact that we’re going with two other sets of twins (and their parents…I’m not that crazy), I’m sure it’ll be a nice, relaxing evening full of progressive music and kick-ass stage performances. And, I hear Elmo plays a mean guitar.

The anatomy of a mother’s thoughts.

The other day, as I was pushing 80 MPH in a 70 MPH zone, to get from Point A to Point B quickly, I glanced down and noticed for the first time how fast I was going. I was propelling myself and my children through a sea of metal at a rate higher than what was recommended for safety. I started to really think about what I was doing, that I was in a vehicle that was moving amongst other vehicles and that, though I was responsible for keeping my vehicle under control and safe as I was transporting my Beans, I had no control of anything or anyone around us. And we were moving fast. I couldn’t quite wrap my brain around it. I shook my head as if to physically rid the thoughts that were accumulating in my mind.

Obviously, I’m not going to stop driving, but the thought of what could potentially happen in a vehicle which, quite frankly, I’m not skilled at driving properly, jarred me.

And then I began to think of other things. Maybe all mothers do this at one point or another. Maybe the range of concern spirals from spontaneous curiosity to bone-chilling obsession. I just began thinking.

Of when they won’t be with me.

Of when they take the school bus for the first time.

Of when they ride their bikes around the neighborhood.

Of when they sit in a dark theater with their friends.

Of when they run to the store for a pack of gum.

And then I think about what may not physically hurt them but what may break their heart.

I admit that I once shed tears at the play area of the local mall. Granted, I may have been PMS-ing just a bit, but I sat along the sides with J and the other parents, watching the Beans play and interact with the other children. I saw their contradictory personalities in their play. A moved amongst the children with ease and confidence, and a bit of an attitude. M, on the other hand, gingerly followed her sister. Where she would normally be the aggressor between the two of them, she was timid and uncertain. At one point, Maggie tried to go to Audrey, who was looking in a mirror at the other side of the play area. A little boy was running between them and this frustrated Maggie and made her turn and run back to us in anger. We consoled her and gently pushed her back into the crowd and eventually she made it to Audrey. But the damage was done in my mind. I said to J, “What if, one day, she is left behind because Audrey is off with her friends? What if she feels intimidated or unwelcome?” It brought me to tears in the middle of the mall. I began thinking.

Of when they will have their heart broken.

Of when they will be lonely.

Of when they will feel different, unsure, scared.

Last night, Jack’s friend was killed in a car accident. I was afraid to call him. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to hear the anguish in his voice. I didn’t want to think that it could have easily been him.

I realize that I can’t protect them. Though I’d love to gather them up into a bubble of security and comfort for the rest of their lives, so that they never have to feel pain, physical or otherwise, I know that it’s not really what they need. I can’t keep them from mishaps, from accidents, from jerks or from failure. I can’t keep them from life. That would be the greatest crime.

Sleepy: A Haiku

The Beans are asleep.
Max curls under my knees, warm.
Silent days are scarce.

If anyone is interested in how my day is going…

…I’ve been spending the last fifteen minutes here.

Maybe the playroom wasn’t a good idea after all.

Reason #1,904,256 and 1,904,257 Why It’s Good To Be a Momma Bean

Stickers and Temporary Tattoos.

I am sooooo hot.

Well, Daddy Bean thinks I’m the hottest mommy blogger around, so it must be true! So vote for me!

Hi. Do you have this in a size eight ten twin skin?

Swimsuits. Or as I like to call them, uniforms of evil. A woman must not have invented these. And certainly not a woman who has given birth to twins.

The other day, when I was trying on my twenty-third device of the devil, I squeezed The Pie into the dressing room with me, while Daddy Bean wandered around with A. I slipped into one after another, slowly growing more desperate (and sweaty) with each new suit. I glanced down at HRP who took a moment from studiously chewing on my new sunglasses to look up at my reflection in the mirror. I looked at what she was peering at and then back down to her little pigtailed head. “You did this to me.” I whispered, without an ounce of bitterness or sadness in my voice. It was the truth, I was being matter-of-fact. And then I pulled the suit off, put my clothes back on and strolled out with my little bean.

Later, I stood in the middle of the mall and burst into tears. J asked me what was wrong and after minutes of incoherent blubbering, I confessed to him what I had said to M in the dressing room. I assured him that I didn’t do it in a hateful way, and that I would give my body up again and again for the gift that I had received in exchange. But I was still miserable and guilty and furious with myself for uttering such a vile sentence. How could I say such a thing?

It’s true that my body is completely different now than it was before the Beans. It’s true that I have scars and marks on my body that I had never had before and might never get rid of. And it’s true that twin skin doesn’t go away and that I’ll have surgery to repair some of the damage caused by pregnancy sometime in the future. And that I use the excuse of shopping for the girls to avoid buying things for myself anymore. And that shopping isn’t as fun as it used to be. Yes, they did this to me. They entered my body in January 2005 and ever since then, I do not recognize myself when I look in the mirror.

Some days, I’m okay with it. If I stand a certain way or suck in just so, I don’t notice that my stomach is stretched and more or less resembles a pile of play-doh. On other days, I pull at my shirt or change four times. I have come to realize why mom jeans are termed “mom” jeans. Apparently, I’m not the only one.

I kick myself for thinking I was too fat or needed to lose a few pounds when I had my old body. I would kill to have my BTB belly and, if I could have it back, I would swear to never utter the word, “diet” again and make a pact to eat chocolate once a day. I wouldn’t whine about needing to lose five or ten pounds and I would not be ashamed to say, “Damn. I look good today!”

J hates when I complain about myself in front of the Beans. He reminds me all the time and even snaps at me if I’ve gone too far in front of them. He doesn’t want them to be like all the other women in the world who ridicule themselves daily with hateful comments to the mirror. He wants them to think they are the most beautiful women in the world and he thinks that the things that I say in front of them are hurtful and will affect them in the future. He’s right. I hear it all the time from my beautiful family and friends. Who are we comparing ourselves to, and why? Why is a man telling me how to be a better role model to my children?

So, I bite my tongue. And when I’m feeling really plucky (like when I lost another pound or when I purchased that white dress from The Limited the other day IN SINGLE DIGITS!) I prance around in my new clothes and show the Beans how pretty I feel. And I tell them daily, maybe even by the hour, how lovely they are. And how lucky I am to have had them. And when I’m smiling from ear to ear or dancing around the room like a two year old or grabbing my belly in side-splitting laughter, I tell them, “You did this to me.”

Thirty-one going on Wrinkled Old Bag.

So, you know how sometimes you think about what you want to write about during the strangest times? Like, when you’re listening to your husband drone on about how the UFC is the fastest growing sport in the nation, or when you’re in the middle of a preference analysis or maybe using the ladies’ room for the tenth time in four hours due to your determination to achieve your maximum requirement of H2O by the time you leave the office? No? Well, play along with me folks, I’m in a tizzy here.

Anyway, I was thinking about writing about how, not only did the pregnancy and birth of the Beans leave me with a natty little scar, a plethora of stretch marks and twin skin*, but I’ve got a bit of a difficult time holding my bladder for any longer than, say ten minutes. If I have to go, I have to go. Now. One afternoon in Oklahoma, we were driving home from the city and we had a ways to go (who are we kidding, everywhere you drive from or to in OK is a “ways to go”) and I felt the urge. The sister and the husband thought it was funny and J proceeded to poke and prod me while I twisted in my seat for the best position in which to relieve some pressure. I’m not incontinent. I don’t think. I mean, there are those times where I have a really big sneeze and…oh never mind. I’m just saying, I was thinking about how I have to go when I have to go. And how the bathroom in our office building registers a temperature of approximately 32 degrees and the toilet seat, I’m sure, is a good ten degrees cooler. And how I had to get in and get out and get back to my office before I turned into an ice cube right there on the toilet.

So, I am thinking all these thoughts and quickly finish up and get out to wash my hands when a flash of something in the mirror caught my eye. I look close and don’t see anything. I lean in closer…there is a flake at my temple and a little pimple, whose presence I am sure will be known in a day or two, right next to it. That’s not it. Closer.

And then I see it. A big, thick, bold gray hair sticking straight up out of the middle of the top of my head. A GRAY HAIR!

Breathe.

Now, I’ve found two gray hairs before while I was in the hospital. I’ve heard that you can get them during a period of extreme stress (see Nancy’s hair on A Nightmare on Elm Street) and I was definitely under a lot of stress then. You can see the reason why here and here and, well, pretty much anywhere during that period. Ever since then, I’ve been vigilant. I’ve checked and checked again and in one and a half years I haven’t spotted another defecting follicle. Until today.

The offending hair didn’t last long, but I know that, where there is one, many more will inevitably follow. I shouldn’t complain. My mom starting getting gray hair in her twenties. J runs away when he sees me approach him wielding a pair of tweezers, shouting over his shoulder that it’s a useless battle as twice as many replace the ones that I deport.

I still get carded at some movie theaters and I can never get away with ordering an adult beverage without having to flash my driver’s license. I’ve been lucky enough to stave off wrinkles as well, but if you look at my hands, so similar to my mother’s, you will see my true age.

It has just been the last several months that it seems as if time has begun to catch up with my body. I’ve mentioned before the aches and pains as well as a bit of the slowing down that comes with the loss of youth. And now my hair has joined the revolt. I haven’t colored my hair since January 2005, when I discovered that I was pregnant with the Beans. Obviously, I’ve been living on borrowed time.

So, let’s recap. I am now the proud owner of: (1) stretch marks; (2) twin skin; (3) incontinence; (4) wrinkly hands; (5) arthritis; and (6) gray hair.

Lucky me.

They say that age is a state of mind. And so, lucky me, that despite all of these physical changes that I have experienced in the last few years, I may not feel young, but I still feel youthful.

Still. Any recommendations for wrinkle cream would be greatly appreciated.

*Twin skin…if you don’t know what it is, be happy that you don’t. If you’re curious, Google it and then immediately contribute to the Momma Bean Benevolent Fund For Removal of Twin Skin. You’ll be doing the whole world a favor.

Me Likey Some M&Ms (Peanut, that is)

According to my new! favorite! site!, FitSugar, the makers of some of my favorite chocolate confections will stop marketing to children ages twelve and under by the end of the year. Thanks, Mr. Milky Way, but what have you done for me lately? Hows about stop marketing to mothers of multiples ages 29-32 who are attempting to shed twenty big ones by May 17th? Can you do a Momma Bean a favor?

Starting Sunday yesterday today, I’m on a mission, so please PLEASE please stop flaunting your wares. I love my carrots and yogurt just fine. And besides, they do melt in your hand. Hmph.