I Deal in Absolutes

After giving birth to twins, I've accepted some realities of life. My stomach will never be flat again. Ever. It's a little hard on my self-esteem, especially when I try on swimsuits, but I do believe that losing my girlish figure was worth the price to bring strong, full-term babies into this world. The memory loss has been harder to deal with. I've always prided myself on a somewhat photographic memory that allowed me to cram for tests like nobody's business, to remember names and phone numbers without writing them down, and to settle any and all arguments regarding who-played-what-role-in-which-film with my encyclopedic knowledge of movie trivia. Those days are gone. Now someone comes up to me in the post office and says, "Hi, Kim! How's it going?" and I have no idea who they are or from where I know them.

While I've made peace with the fact that I'm never going to reach my high school weight again, I keep hoping that my mind will sharpen back up—that somehow this fogginess is a temporary setback and at some point I'll be able to recall instantly the name of that funny actress who plays the waitress in that sitcom from the 80s. You know, the one with the hair and the gum.

Hope is supposed to spring eternal, but mine is dying. I've become aware recently of my increasing inability to read those subtle cues required for the most basic of adult interactions. I suppose that this latest disability is a direct result from staying home with 3-year-olds. Everything is black and white with us. My twins tell me what they want, straight out with no pussy-footing around. "Wanna watch a movie!" "Lunch!" "Mommy, hug!" I tell them what I want, without worrying about softening my approach. "Get off the table!" "Time to take your nap!" "Stop pooping on the floor!" I'm not exactly a sparkling conversationalist, but I thought I could communicate successfully with another adult if I really put my mind to it. Turns out I was wrong.

Without going into excruciating detail, let me just say that I was involved in an interaction that I totally misinterpreted. It became clear in a most embarrassing way that I was operating under one assumption, while the other person was not just on another page, but reading a whole different book. The person with whom I was communicating, in my opinion, was polite but vague, while I probably came across as the literal-minded, slightly grumpy crank that I am. Basically, I'm the dude nodding and mm-hmming in the following clip:

If I cared enough, I suppose I could put on my big girl Crocs, pick up the phone, and call the person-who-was-thinking-one-thing-while-I-was-thinking-another to ask, "What just happened? What did you really want from me? And why can't I remember the name of the guy on Numb3rs, because I absolutely loved him in that movie with what's-her-face?" Unfortunately, I didn't think to write down the name or phone number of the person who confused me . . . I think it was a woman. But it might have been a man.

Dinner last night: homemade chicken soup, sweet corn muffins

Now I Know What My Friday's Five Bloggers Feel Like

I am a member of Multiples and More, a blog network dedicated to parents of twins, triplets, and quads. The Octomom would be wise to join this site, as it is chock full of informative posts, neat-o giveaways, reviews of mom-friendly products, and interviews. Fabulously interesting interviews. In fact, they've just put up a fantastic interview of this good-looking supermom of identical twin daughters; they all live up in Alaska . . . okay, I realize the "good-looking supermom" part threw you off, but do I have to spell it out? The interview is of me.

After reading my own interview, I've come to realize there's a fine line between "dry wit" and "sounding totally serious." Although I was kidding when I said it's never too soon to start worrying about whether to separate the twins when they start first grade three years from now, I was being perfectly serious when I stated that if I could take a family vacation ANYWHERE ON EARTH, it would be the Florida Keys. Because there's no way I'm dealing with the passports, jet lag, and luggage involved in dragging four children and a husband across the ocean to Italy.

That dream trip is reserved for me, and me alone.

Dinner last night: rice, sausages, corn

Out of Commission

My 9-year-old daughter broke her left arm on Saturday morning.

Whenever something awful happens to one of my children, I do not take pictures. I do not journal. Later, when they're all better, when the event has evolved into a great story, when perspective and optimism have been restored, I wish I had something other than my panic-filled memories to help me document the experience. I'm not even close to that point, however.

I'm not ready to tell the story until I know her arm's going to be alright, and that won't be for another week when the orthopedic surgeon checks her again, when the swelling has gone down, when the arm is ready to go into a hard cast. I may not even be ready to tell the story for a couple of months, after the hard cast comes off and the physical therapy is complete. Actually, I don't know if I ever want to talk about it.

My husband snapped a picture on the ER doctor's cell phone right before my daughter went into surgery. That's all I can stand for now.

Dinner last night: spaghetti and meatballs