Blergh.

Sorry again for the lack of posts. Y'all. February can kiss it. And to add insult to injury, they gave it another day this year. I do think that's cool, though. So, if your birthday is today, Happy Birthday! You're probably only like 7 or 8, huh? But, seriously, February...later gator. It's not been a bad month at all. Actually, a great month. Just SOOOO busy. I am wo. out. I don't know why I feel like a brand new month will replenish all my energy.

You know we're trying to sell the house. I realize now why everybody says this...but, I will never sell a house again. The next house will be the one we die in or until Jesus comes back, because I ain't moving again. When you're selling a house, you have to do everything at the prospective buyers' convenience. If they're in the neighborhood and want to see the house RIGHT NOW, they get to and the house has to be immaculate and they don't like the sellers in the house. So, I have 20 minutes to pick up all of the girls' toys, which are, of course, everywhere. I have to hide all of the clean laundry sitting on the bed waiting to be folded. I have to vacuum the whole house. I mean, everything has to be perfect because people don't care that you work from home and have two kids. They want to see a model home. MOST of the time, though, the showings are on the weekends and we have at least a 2-hour notice. But, inevitably, it's during the girls' nap time or right at their bedtime.

Which is what happened this past Sunday/Monday. Sunday morning, we had a showing from 9-11, which was a great time for us. Usually agents leave their business cards on the counter, but this one didn't. AND, I made cookies, like I do for every showing. I generally know how many people are coming and I'll always make a few extra to seem generous. But, really, I know they're not going to eat all of them because they don't want to seem like pigs. So, it's a very maniuplative situation and I'm fine with it. I left these folks cookies...not a single one eaten. Hmph. Whatever, more for me.

We didn't hear anything from our agent, so just thought they maybe weren't interested. But, on Monday, I got a call saying the couple loved it and wanted to bring their parents back to get their approval. Mistake #1. Sorry, parents, but it's true. Their agent said if the parents liked it, they were gonna write up a contract that night. We knew it was in the bag! They said the showing was between 6-8 p.m. Not the best time for us because the girls' supper is at 6 p.m. and bedtime is at 7 p.m. But, we would make it work. What we do is load up on snacks for the girls and lots of movies to watch and we park way down the street and turn off the lights. We can still see the house, but they wouldn't know we were watching. Yeah, it's a little creepy, I realize.

Well, three cars FINALLY pull up at 6:45 p.m. Nine people get out the cars...NINE. How many parents do these kids have? (Btw, I baked eight cookies, so I was already a little nervous.) They get out of the cars and immediately, a gazillion flashlights come on. It's not even that dark outside, but whatever. They walk through one of the gates in the fence and you can see some sparkles as the flashlight beams pass between the boards in the fence. They're in the back yard for a good 10 minutes and then come out of the gate on the other side. They walk around the front, shining the flashlights everywhere. I'm beginning to wonder why they're not going inside. Our agent then calls saying their agent is running late. Of course. She finally gets there about 7:10 p.m. They all go inside. The girls are starting to get fussy, as are David and myself.

For the next 50 minutes, we can see people going through the front bedrooms and then three men came out with flashlights, shining them everywhere. They did this for awhile. My heart started sinking and I realized these weren't the folks that were gonna buy the house. Not when they brought seven extra people with them to pass their approval on a house. They left about 8 p.m. We went back inside. Again...not a single cookie eaten. What kind of monsters are these people?!? We didn't hear anything until yesterday morning. Yep. No offer. Our agent said the parents talked the couple out of it, but in talking with their agent, ours said there seemed to be something else going on as well. The parents were helping them buy the house, so it might have had something to do with that. Whatever. That's how it is and we understand that. But, it was a complete waste of our evening. I was SO ill about it.

And I've been so grouchy. But, I did have eight cookies to keep me company. I'm not baking any more goodies for these moochers. If they want to buy the house, they can do it sans cookies. We DO, however, have a contingency contract on the house. A couple offered our asking price, which we were thrilled with, but they have to sell their house first. But at least we have a contract on it. I like that couple, too. I know their names, but we've never met them. I picture what they look like and I like them. They have dogs and I know they would love the yard. I kind of hope they get the house in the end...just hoping it's sooner rather than later.

I'm just tired of showing it.

Thanks for letting me vent. Blergh.

Also, color crayons are from the devil.

They Call Me...Eagle Eye

It's an ironic nickname and, actually, only one person in the world calls me that...Miz Di. (Her name is Diane, but we've always called her Miz Di.) It's ironic because I have horrible vision. I wear contacts (or glasses at night/when nobody can see me) and I can see totally fine, thank goodness. But, I take out my contacts and I can find my way through the house, but I'd have to hold up paper an inch from my face to read a 30 point font.

I got the nickname many, many years ago. I can't remember how old I was, but I'm going to guess somewhere between 8 and 10. My best friend, Michaelyn, was over at my house playing. Michaelyn's family were neighbors. Where we lived as kids (and where my parents still live), having a neighbor meant someone within 2 miles of your house. It's not like the neighbors where I live now and you walk out to check the mail and a million people are staring and waving to you. Bah, humbug!

Michaelyn or I would ride our bikes to each other's houses to visit. Michaelyn had an older sister who was Sara's age and they hung out a lot, too. Her name was Mandy. My favorite memory of Mandy is when we were all four jumping on the trampoline and...you have to remember, that back then, there weren't any sissy spring bumpers or pansy safety nets. These were real trampolines. They helped shape us into who we are as adults. Always living on the edge. Today's trampolines are so "safe". Although, I'm very thankful for that because I can't imagine my crazy kids on a "real" trampoline. So, we were jumping and I don't know how it happened, but Mandy FLEW off into the woods. It was literally like watching someone throw a heap of cats into pile of leaves...legs and arms flying everywhere. But, she was on her feet in a second, holding her head, saying, "Ooooh, my brainssssss."

Another thing you should know about Michaelyn and Mandy is that their dad's name was Michael, but he went by Mike. They had a younger brother named Mikey. And an even younger brother named Bryan. Bryan? I mean, a great name, but I think we lost sight of the theme here, guys. And I am praying to God that Mandy doesn't read this. Mandy, if you so happen to stumble upon this, please know you guys were some of the best friends Sara and I had. Not a lot of kids would be friends with us (mainly Sara...I was super popular) and we so appreciate it. You guys were, and are, awesome. I hope we get to see each other again soon! I just...well, I always wondered about "Bryan".

ANYWAYS...my thin and extremely tall friend, Michaelyn, was over at the house playing. We were probably playing with my model horses. She loved horses as much as I did. OH! That reminds me of another M, M, M, and Bryan story! Short one, I promise. Sara and I rode our bikes over to their house one time and there was a horse...A HORSE...standing in their front yard. We stood in awe and jealousy for a moment before one of the family opened the door. They answered our silence and dropped jaws, "Oh yeah! So, this horse just walked up in the yard. We're trying to find the owners now." WHAT?!?! A horse just WALKED up into your yard?!? Okay...number one, WHY DOES NOTHING LIKE THAT EVER HAPPEN TO ME?! and number two, don't find the owners. KEEP IT! I never get that lucky.

Okay, for real this time...Michaelyn and I were playing with my horses–the small, fake ones–when the phone rings. I hear some murmurings through the wall and then Mom comes into my room.

"Girls, y'all want to go to Miz Di's house and help her find a diamond earring?"

"Uh...sure?"

We loaded into the car and drove the 2 miles to Miz Di's house. We arrive and find out that Miz Di had been outside talking on the phone and when she got back in, she realized her diamond stud had fallen out. She searched and searched to no avail. She called for back-up. Two 8 to 10 year olds and a lady more blind than she was. If you're a guy, you have to understand that a girls' diamond studs are priceless. It doesn't matter if they're 1/16 of a carat or 5 carats. Her diamond studs are the staple of her jewelry armoire. It's a sin to lose one. Miz Di showed us the area where she thought it might have fallen out and promised, "If you girls find this earring, I've got some ice cream Snickers waiting inside." Well, I knew Miz Di and we were gonna get those Snickers regardless, but I was determined to earn it. The ice cream variety had JUST come out, so it was a big deal and I had only heard stories of their wondrousness. I would have one that day and it would be glorious.

Mom and Miz Di went back inside the house, leaving Michaelyn and I standing in the grass. You know what, now that I think about it, those two old gals never even helped us. Hmmmph. I see how it is. Whatever. I knew we would find it. We got down to our knees and started slowly and meticulously picking through the blades of grass. We had been looking for about 3 minutes and then I had this feeling. If you've ever been to any church camp or conference, you've probably taken a spiritual gifts test. It's not to TELL you what gifts you have, but to kind of give you an idea of what your strengths are. They're very helpful. The one I always score highest in is prophecy. No, no, I can't tell the future...but I kinda can. (Seriously, I'm joking...prophecy is like having an intuition about things. That sounds arrogant, and I can't explain it well, but it's like I have a feeling about things. Ah, that still sounds crystal ball-ish. I'm sorry. I hope I'm not confusing anyone. I'm just saying I can see into the future. AH NO! Just Google it.)

As I was kneeling, I KNEW I was about to find that earring. I just KNEW it. I looked to my right and saw a little indention in the grass. I didn't see the earring, but I knew it was in that little hole. I peeled back two blades and, sparkling and smiling, there was the diamond stud. I held it up for Michaelyn and said, "Found it. Let's go get our our ice cream."

We walked into the house, earring in my closed palm, and I presented the earring to Miz Di and Mom. They both proceeded to scream and jump up and down. "Calm down, ladies, and show me to the freezer." Miz Di produced two Snickers ice cream bars and Michaelyn and I sat and immensely enjoyed the rewards of our labor. From that day on, Miz Di has called me Eagle Eye. She also calls me Izzy.

And I still love ice cream Snickers.

Need something found? Give me a call. (*wink...putting my shades on, slowly walking away with a little swagger..."Eagle Eye" fading across the screen*). Except, don't really, because I'm blind as a bat.

Meh meh meh batsaren'treallyblind meh meh meh...I know, science nerds.

Doozy of a Week

Sorry for the radio silence last week. It wasn't particularly crazy, much like the title of the post might imply. It was just too cold. Too cold, I tell you! There were just a lot of little things going on that added up. My fabulous mother came and stayed with us Tuesday night through Sunday morning. Dad was on call and Mom offered her services as animal wrangler for the week to give me a break. And it was very much appreciated. Four times a year, I design a fairly large booklet for work. This and last week is one of those times. I know four times a year doesn't sound like a lot, but on top of the regular work load and weekly things I do, adding that book to it stretches my creativity to the max. I am out. I only have a limited amount each month. So, whenever my posts sound especially like this: "Heeeeeey...bo be do da boooooooo heeeeey," it's probably because it's book week. Anyways!

Valentine's Day was awesome! My honey sent me the most beautiful flowers and we exchanged our favorite types of chocolates with each other–always my favorite part. He's so sweet and romantic. I'm lucky to have him. We also got the girls some little Valentine baskets filled with stickers and crayons and mini-M&Ms and Mickey Mouse flash cards and more stickers and glow stick bracelets. They loved everything, except Harper was terrified of the bracelets. Why? I don't know. When they stopped glowing, she was totally fine with it. Maybe she thought they were radioactive. I also got them a pack of Sour Patch kids thinking it'd be hilarious to get them on film eating them. My whole face sucks in when I eat those things, so I thought the girls were gonna freak. (Yes, yes, I'm a horrible parent.) Those kids were completely unfazed. They ate them like they were Cheerios. I was severely disappointed. Joke's on me, I guess.

We watched the Valentine's episode of New Girl, which Mom hated and repeatedly told us it was the "stupidest show she's ever seen." She says that about everything we watch, but it's strange because she asks us what's happening on House, Bones, and The Office all the time. This is a common, nightly exchange with Mom:

Ruth: Mom, do you want to watch House Hunters?

Mom: No, no. I'm just gonna take my shower and then crochet. Y'all watch whatever you want. I'm not gonna pay attention to it.

Ruth: Okey dokey. (flipping to New Girl...Ruth and David laughing at the antics of Schmidt)

Mom: Who is that?

Ruth: Schmidt.

Mom: Why is he such a pig?

Ruth: That's just the character, Mom.

Mom: Who is that girl and why is she so ditsy?

Ruth: That's Jess. And that's just how she is.

Mom: That makes so sense. They all live together in that apartment?

Ruth: Yes. It's a long story.

Mom: But, I---

Ruth: MOM! (TV paused) We have all the episodes. Do you want to watch them from the beginning so you'll know the whole story.

Mom: No. This is a stupid show. I'm not even watching. I'm crocheting.

Ruth: Okay then...shhhhhh... (TV unpaused)

Mom: But, why is she---

Ruth: They're all dead. This is a ghost story and it's very scary and you won't like it. Stop watching.

Mom: Oooh, I don't like scary movies.

Friday night, David kept the girls and Mom, Sara, and I ate at Flip Burger and then stormed Whole Foods. Whole Foods is on 280, as is Flip, so I rarely frequent those establishments. Highway 280 and I are not on the best of terms. But, it was a fun girl date!

Saturday, Mom kept the girls the whole afternoon and David and I went shoe shopping! You'll be surprised to find out that I did not try on a single pair of shoes. GASP. I know, I was shocked, too. David needed a whole new shoe wardrobe. We went and saw This Means War. I am the poster child for lover of romantic comedies. I never get tired of them. I usually base my movie-going decisions on if the normal people like the movie. If the critics like it, I know I'll probably hate it. If the critics hate it, I know I'll love it. That probably makes me an uncultured and shallow intellectual individual, but I don't want to pay to see something that makes me really sad. So, the critics hated This Means War and David read that it had awesome secret agent fights in it, so he said he'd see it, too. Y'all, it was adorable and way better than I thought it'd be. It had some great one-liners. I highly recommend it.

The weather has gotten colder and it was rainy all weekend. I loathe winter. I'm not even going to capitalize it. Doesn't Spring start next month? Blah.

Liar, Liar

First of all, thank you guys for the sweet comments from my post last week. It makes me happy to know I'm not the only one with a weird sense of humor. Mom has decided all of your title suggestions should be incorporated into the book's title (you know, the one that isn't real) because they were all wonderful ideas. So, thanks for enabling my Mom's obsession. I've heard about it all weekend. I blame you.

Growing up in my parents' home, lying was a pretty aggregious offense. But, as a kid, you had to lie about some stuff. It comes with the territory. So, we had to adapt. Sara stopped lying. Peter became the worst liar ever. And Noah and I should have been given medals for how good of liars we are, uh, were.

Sara always told the truth. She still always tells the truth. Sometimes it's a pretty painful truth and she sure doesn't sugarcoat it for you.

"Sara, do you want to go shopping at the outlet mall with me?"

"No."

She won't make up some lame excuse and I appreciate that about her. (She hates shopping.) It also makes me realize that when she is doing something with me, it's because she wants to. When we were little, Mom could always count on Sara to tell her what really happened out in the woods that led to Noah's bleeding ear and my shredded clothes. Noah or I would have told a great tale about how a pack of wild raccoons attacked us. The truth was, we found a machete in the mud pit and starting hacking away at everything in sight and Noah's ear and Ruth's clothes were collateral damage. Basically, Sara was Mayor of the Tattletales.

"Sara, dude!! You ratted us out!"

"Yeah, so. See ya."

I'm making Sara out to be a cold, heartless robot. She's not. She's actually a very loving, generous individual. Just because there is a dark pit where her withering heart once beat doesn't mean she doesn't care. We never would have made it the first few months with the twins if it wasn't for her. She was the first and only person brave enough to feed the girls bottles by herself in the middle of the night. No, she's a very caring person. She actually just never wanted to deal with the politics of lying and having to carry out a lie. You know the whole "you have to lie to cover up a lie" and it's just neverending. To Sara, it was easier to tell the truth.

Peter decided to be a little more colorful about it. The truth isn't always the best...that's Peter's motto. When Peter arrived, Noah was 5, I was 11, and Sara was 13. Prime lying ages. So, poor kid came into America with not a word of English and he had the three of us to teach him the ropes. When Sara began her radical truth ways, Noah and I took over. We taught him to pick his lies carefully and not give too many details. The more elaborate the lie, the harder it was to keep it going and the more likely Mom and Dad would catch on. We told him our secrets and ways to distract from the truth. We showed him how to look people in the eye and believe your own lie so they would too. He never listened. He chose his own path. We washed our hands of him. He was no longer our protegé. And so, Peter became the worst liar in the history of the world.

Peter is one of the sweetest people I know. He has the biggest heart and he loves to help others. He has such a giving nature. But golly, that kid cannot tell a lie. Oh, he tries. Whenever he was getting in trouble for something, we'd all grab a bucket of popcorn and sit and watch because we knew his story was gonna be good. Here are some of Pete's "better" lies.

Peter loved to play with Dad's power tools, which, of course, he wasn't allowed to do. One day, many years ago, I was walking out to the garage to feed the cats. I hear a motor whirring way off in the goat pen (yes, we had goats). I stop and listen for a second and squint to see if I can spot the source of the noise. I see a bright red blob bobbing up and down. The bright red blob suddenly stops moving and stands straight up...seemingly staring straight at me. The motor cuts off. The red blob blurs through the trees and disappears behind the garage. I hear the gate to the goat pen open. I hear steps through rustling leaves and then a pause and then steps on a wooden walkway. There comes Peter in a red shirt, walking around the side of the garage, whistling.

"Oh, hey, Ruth."

"Hey, Wep. Listen, did you hear something in the woods just now?"

(gulping) "What?"

"A noise. Something like a motor."

"A noise? Uh...OH! Yeah, yeah, that was me. I sometimes go out in the woods (gulp) and make noises with my mouth like...brrrrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbr. You know, like that (gulp)."

"Any particular reason?"

"Nah, it's just fun, I guess."

"So, you're telling me...if I go behind the garage, I'm not gonna see Dad's chainsaw stashed by the trash cans?"

"Oh, yeah...uhm...I think I was playing with the chainsaw."

"You think?"

"I'll go tell Mom I was playing with the chainsaw."

That is one thing I admire about him. At least when he knows he's been caught, he'll fess up to Mom and Dad willingly. Here's another great lie of Peter's.

Several years ago, someone bought Peter a really awesome leather whip. Why anyone would need one, I don't know, but it was very Indiana Jones-esque. Peter would be out in the field for hours perfecting the snap. One day, Mom noticed a huge red mark on the back of Peter's neck. Startled, Mom asked, "Peter! What happened to your neck?"

"What? Oh! That. Uhm...I guess it's just from looking up."

"You mean to tell me that looking up has caused this huge almost-cut on the back of your neck."

"Yeah, I mean, you know (gulp)...looking up can do that."

"Did you whip the back of your neck?"

(embarrassed) "Yes."

Peter has a lying tell. He swallows and gulps a lot, so you always know he's lying. Bless him. He's a good kid. We tried, Noah...we really did.

Noah and I are, uh, were awesome liars. It's not something we should brag about, but it really is. We're pretty amazing. We have different methods. Noah is adamantly "telling the truth" and I'm nonchalantly "telling the truth." And we can carry it on for awhile if we need to. And we're really good on the spot. We can come up with a complete character back-story and secondary plot lines in an instant. And we're good with details. Not too much...not too little. Just enough to get a "well, they must be telling the truth" verdict.

Scenario: the flowers around the pool are dead because somebody forgot to water them after Mom asked them to days before.

Mom: "Noah/Ruth! Did you not water the flowers like I asked you to?"

Noah: "MOM! Seriously! It rained the other day, so I couldn't then, obviously! And then, I was doing homework ALL DAY LONG yesterday! And then the water pressure isn't strong enough today!"

Ruth: "Uh, I don't think you asked me to. Uh, nope. Nobody said a word to me about it. It's cool, it's cool. Don't worry about it. I'll do it now. No, it's fine. Just...ask me next time and I'll do it, okay?"

However, the greater and more beautiful the lie, the greater and more ugly the downfall and we've met some pretty heartwrenching ends whenever we were found out. Some lies are still going even after all the years. Actually, I'm not even sure if some of them aren't the truth...I've lost track. Despite our glorious lies, it never felt good to tell them and, I can't speak for Noah, but I always felt really bad. Bad enough to tell the truth? Nah. But, I did feel guilty. It was kind of a relief when I was caught, though.

Lying comes in handy even as an adult. I'm great with surprise parties, engagements, and gifts. David never has any idea about gifts I get him. What do you call it when magicians show you something over here, so they can draw your attention away from over there where the real trick is happening? I'm good at that. I cannot wait to give Hugs his birthday present. He has no clue what it is. Only one other person knows and he's good at the magician thing, too.

Mom says she doesn't trust me to tell her the truth about clothes she's trying on. If you ask me honestly what I think about something, I WILL tell you the truth...I just kind of skirt around it. Sara will throw up on you if she doesn't like it. I try a gentler approach and find something I do like about the outfit, especially if I can tell you really like it. But, if it's not doing you any favors at all, I will tell you. And I appreciate the same courtesy. Mom, I've told you the truth about tons of outfits. Remember the orange linen suit with white polka dots from Liz and Jane? I told you you may or may not have looked like a clown. See? I tell the truth.

The moral of this story is...if you need an alibi or help disposing of a body, call me or Noah. Sara and Peter will be of no help to you.

Mom: The Book Titler

Is titler a word? Title-er? One who titles books. So, Mom, the ever-supportive, ever-encouraging, and ever-nurturing mother decided the other day that I should write a book. She called me to declare this. This is the conversation that transpired:

"RUTH! I just read that blog post and laughed and laughed. I'm telling you, you should write a book!"

"You have to laugh. You're my mom. I do not have the literary mind, patience, or intellectual capacity to write a book. I would have a general "good" idea of a story, but not have a reasonable way get from point A to point B. Kind of like the writers of LOST. They made it up as they went along."

"No, no, it doesn't have to be a novel, but like a collection of short stories. Kind of how you write your blog."

"But a collection of short stories has to have a theme. My blog doesn't have a theme...well, except the theme of random."

"Yeah, but it's about your childhood and life in the present and having twins and life with twins and living in the South and what you eat...things like that."

"What did I just say about random?"

"I'm telling you..."

"Mom, no one is going to pick up a book a book titled 'Random Writings from Some Girl.' Only and handful of people even understand what I'm talking about half the time anyway."

"Well, no one would title a book that. You just have to have a good title and then write good stuff."

"EXACTLY. I appreciate your vote of confidence, but God did not put me on this Earth to write a collection of short stories. Some have that gift, I do not. I'll design you a logo, though."

(not listening) "We just need to come up with a good title. How about...(she spoke this in one, long, run-on sentence)

Life in the South

MY Life in the South

Life with Twins

Life in the South with Twins

Twins in the South

Having Twins

Stories from the South

Random Stories from the South from Someone with Twins

Life

Twins

The South

Raising Twins with Life

A Designer Who Had Twins and Wrote Random Stories About Life in the South

Bogue and Weejer!

Things I..."

(trailing off in her own world)

So, folks, as you can see...we are on the cusp of a very good title for my non-collection of short stories of life with twins in the South.

Twin Translation

Kids are hard to understand. Unless it's your own kid, you really can't make out what one is saying. And some kids never grow out of it. Like Sara...she's 31 and I can barely understand what she's talking about..."Blah bleeh boo bah hehe." Kids should come with Starfleet regulation universal translators. You try to find key words and figure out what they're asking, but I usually have to look at their parents like, "Your kid's jabbering on about something...can you help?"

When the girls were about 6 months old, their pediatrician asked us what kind of sounds/babblings they were making. They were pretty much right on track for most everything, but Dr. Reminds then told us to not be surprised if their speech developed a little later than other kids their age when they got a little older. He explained that a lot of kids either developed their motor skills or their speech skills earlier than the other. The girls were very physically active early on, but fairly quiet. He also said that a lot of times, twins begin talking after their singleton counterparts because #1, the parents were too tired to talk to them and #2, they had each other to talk to and with whom to develop a language, so why bother with the adults. We figured they'd talk when they were ready. One day, they were ready.

It wasn't 100% English. And it wasn't 100% human. But, we slowly learned to decipher it. Here's a few conversations we have.

Piper Lee/Harper: Mama!!

Ruth: Good morning, babies!! Did you sleep good?

PL/H: Aw Mama. Celeah!

Ruth: Alrighty. What kind of cereal do you want?

PL/H: Bloo, lallow, ahnge, pink, wed, pupple, greeyah! Oooo's!

Ruth: Fruity Cheerios it is.

PL/H: MALK!

Ruth: And some milk.

PL/H: Meekah Souh!

Ruth: You want to watch Mickey Mouse?

PL/H: SQUEEEE!

(inserting Mickey Mouse DVD)

Piper Lee: No! Waddle Waddle!

Ruth: No, let's not watch Happy Feet. Sister is afraid of the old penguin.

Piper Lee: Harebares!

Ruth: No, we're not gonna watch Care Bears. Sister is afraid of the mean tree.

Piper Lee: Reelaph.

Ruth: We can't watch Rudolph. Sister is afraid of Abominable Snowman.

Piper Lee: Man, sister is a pansy.

Ruth: I know.

Piper Lee: Weelah Pooh.

Ruth: You guys just watched Winnie the Pooh yesterday.

Piper Lee: Meekah Souh!

Ruth: Mickey Mouse it is!

Harper: Oh no!! Sissy! Sissy! Black oooh oooh ah ah eeeh eeeh ooh couch! Oh no!!

Ruth: Sister's pet gorilla is stuck under the couch?

Harper: Yes.

Piper Lee: Ahnge fwoot.

Ruth: You want an orange?

Piper Lee: Yes, pwease.

Ruth: You know, it's just called an orange. You can just say "orange."

Piper Lee: Fwoot.

PL/H: Dipee. Dipee. Pwease.

Ruth: Y'all want some new diapers?

PL/H: Pwease.

Ruth: Well, go pick out which ones you want.

Piper Lee: Wed! Melmo!

Ruth: You want Elmo. Yes, he is red.

Harper: Lallow! Beebee! Tweet Tweet!

Ruth: You want Big Bird. Yes, he is yellow.

Piper Lee: Oooooh NOOOooo! Mama baby mooooo go bye bye raaaawwrrrr (licking lips) yum yum yum aaaahhh (satisfying sigh).

Ruth: The baby cow got eaten by the lion. Aw, that's sad.

Piper Lee: Mooooo gone bye bye.

Harper: (SQUEAL!!) NO! MAMA SISSY RAWRRR!

Ruth: Sister took the lion from you to reenact gruesome feedings by the wild cats of the African savannah?

Ruth: Piper Lee. Will you share some of those M&Ms with Mama?

Piper Lee: (cramming every last one in her face) Aw...choclah gone bye bye Pi's mouf.

Harper: Uh oh! Top belocks! Top belocks! Top top top! Belocks!

Ruth: Calm down...you put too many blocks in the box. That's why the top won't close.

PL/H: Mama phone tweet tweet peenoh chomp chomp mow?

Ruth: You want my phone so you can play Angry Birds, Virtuoso, Water, and Hungry Cat?

PL/H: Yes.

Sadly, they have higher scores than me.

My Greatest Fears

Everybody has fears. Some people handle their fears more gracefully than others. I'm not one of those people. I'm paranoid and think about them all the time. Not in a crippling way, but in a "eh, she's maybe kind of crazy" way. These aren't like, "I'm afraid of spiders" fears. Although, I am afraid of spiders. I don't deal well with them. I'm sure they don't like me...I've killed plenty. Or had David kill them. Most things, I can deal with pretty ungirly-like, but not spiders. I'm a total girl. The kind you want to punch, because it's "just a spider." You've seen spiders, right? I can scream with the best of them. One time, I was in a car with a friend and a teeny tiny semi-friendly looking spider crawled out of the air vent. In the blink of a millisecond, I was in the back seat. I have no idea how I got back there nor did I make a sound. I was just back there. I hyperventilate around spiders. ANYWAYS. Enough about spiders. These are life fears that plague me throughout my days.

I am genuinely concerned that we're hurting our house's feelings by trying to sell it. It sounds crazy, I know. I did the same thing with my car when we sold it and bought the Murano. I cried a little and hugged the hood. There, I said it. I'll be venting to David, "Gyah! I cannot wait to move! This house is just not conducive to living with two Tazmanian devils." And then I'll feel kind of bad because what if the house heard me? So, I'll follow up with, "It's a great house and I've loved living here! It's sheltered us and kept us warm and cool and I will greatly miss it." And then, I'll lay my hand on the wall and say, "Thank you, house."

I'm worried that our kids will be the kids that people dread are coming to an event. I deeply don't want them to be brats. We're working on it early and they're not brats (at least I hope not), but I'm always afraid they're kind of crazy when I'm not around or something. I will raise "yes, ma'am," "no, sir," "thank you," "please," and "your majesty" children. I don't tolerate pains in the rear. I pray at night, "Please let me be a good Mom and teach them well and how to be normal human beings." Right now, we laugh at them when they fart. Yes, yes, we do. It's hysterical, because they're completely oblivious to it. And I know soon will come a day when we have to be like, "Oh, you guys, we do not do that in public," and then laugh later behind closed doors. I want them to be respectful and well-mannered. I want them to be so afraid of breaking something that they walk through Homegoods or the Lenox outlet store with their hands in their pockets even as adults...like someone else I may know. Ahem, moving on.

I will change airplane seats before we board if I've been assigned a seat with the numbers 4, 8, 15, 16, 23, or 42. I refuse to sit there.

I'm afraid I will one day have to give a toast or speech at a wedding or some event. I do not do public speaking. Just ask my public speaking professor in college. "Hi, I'm Ruth...uhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmm...barf."

I'm worried that I'll be in a wreck one day and they'll have to cut my pants off to examine an injury to my legs and I won't have shaved for like a month. And then I'll have to explain.

I fret every single day that our neighbors' kids are going to come by and ask me to buy something for their school. I have to say yes, otherwise I'm the grouchy, mean old lady neighbor. Now, if they're selling Girl Scout cookies.....

I think about when the girls are in middle/high school and I'm grounding them for something or another and they go to their room and passive aggressively "slam" the door, but they know they can't slam it too hard or else I'll ground them even more. And then they slump onto their beds and say mean things about me under their breath. I mean...that's just a random thought...not like I know any other obnoxious teenager that used to do that when her mom grounded her for mouthing off.

I worry way more often than I should that my runny nose is actually spinal fluid drainage and I have some obscure disease that only Dr. House can diagnose, but there is no Dr. House!!

I'm always afraid that there are teeny video cameras everywhere in hotel rooms and public restrooms. Which, I know sounds super pervy, but I saw an episode of CSI or some show like that and that happened!

Whenever I'm in a high-security place like a bank or even like a Best Buy, where there are valuables and security people walking around and cameras set up, I try to act super natural like, "Don't worry, folks, I'm one of the good guys. You don't have to mind me." And then I worry that I'm acting a little TOO naturally and they'll start suspecting something. And then I overcompensate my bad acting and start sweating and then they arrest me for being a freak. I would never pass a lie detector test even if I was telling the truth.

I take back what I said about this not being about being afraid of spiders. One of my greatest fears in this life is that I will vacuum up a spider and it will stay alive in the dust collector place and it will have been pregnant and hatch all those babies and the next time I get out the vacuum, an army of spider babies crawls out and spreads everywhere in my house.

I'm gonna go put the vacuum outside.