Friday, May 29, 2009


I love my babies' farts.

They actually don't smell so hot, and they often sound just like adult farts - not exactly appealing qualities.  But I am amazed that I have created (with a little help from my husband and modern medicine) two little beings who have adorable little round butts and actual farts that emanate from them.

The other day, I was nursing Rhys, when all of a sudden he stuck his bum out, arched his back, pulled down his little arm, and with a shockingly boyish little grunt, he let out a solid "spllllt" and then promptly resumed his nursing.  

I am so in awe over the beauty of my babies' farting that I've recounted this story to at least 10 people.  I'm aware that most people don't want to hear about the gassy secretions of my spawn. I suppose that by continuing to share toot stories, I'm really just refusing to allow others' lack of enthusiasm to dampen my day.

It has, however, occurred to me that perhaps I should not take such great pride in the flatulence of my children.  Since I'm breastfeeding, I'm pretty sure that every last Rhys or Quin fart is actually a reflection of me.  It's as though they're farting on my behalf.  And lord knows I would NEVER dream of passing gas in proper company.  Or improper, for that matter.  In fact, I'm actually physically incapable of passing gas.  But my babies, they tell all my secrets.  

"Blllllllleeet.  Mommy had broccoli last night."

"Flllllllllllaaaaaaaaaaaaoooooooooooooot.  Mommy had beans."

And now I'm sitting here and thinking how the sophistication level of this post is simply pointing out that my lack of sleep is leading to totally regressive and juvenile behavior.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009


There's a quote in the movie 28 Days (the one where Sandra Bullock goes to rehab) that says something like, "get a plant.  If it's still alive in a year, get a pet.  If it's not dead in a year, you can start a relationship.  And if you don't kill that, you can think about having kids."  I saw the movie a long time ago and I think at this point I've totally butchered the quote.  And since this post is totally based on that quote, I thought I should try to portray it accurately.  I went online and searched a thousand different ways.  No luck.  Finally, I tried "28 days I killed the plant"  No luck.  I did, however, find many results on how to keep marijuana plants alive.


This quote has been in my mind lately because I seem to have taken a hacksaw to that advice.  Now granted, the quote is aimed at Sandra Bullock as a recovering addict and how she should approach commitment and responsibility in the outside world.  But still.  It's kinda good advice.  So while my worst addiction is my current sugar habit, it seems like a sound plan to follow.

And through the natural course of life, follow I did.  Over the years I accumulated and nurtured numerous plants.  All thriving, I took on various pets and eventually my loving husband.  And now babies.

It seems, however, that something funny happened once these little babies arrived.  I seem to have lost the ability to maintain all that came before.

First I gave up watering my plants.  Because seriously, philodendron, have a little patience.  I've got babies here.

Next I killed my composting worms.  Combination overfeeding, followed by underfeeding, followed by three days in the rain and probable flooding inside my Can O' Worms.  It was an accidental negligence, and I feel very badly.  As an oh-so-helpful family member recently pointed out, the worms were my responsibility, it was my choice to take them in, and my lack of care led to their untimely deaths.  I get it.  Thanks.

My lovable puppy is still alive.  Probably because it is husband's job to provide food and water.  He multi tasks better these days.  But she is depressed, and wondering when mommy will be fun again.

Husband is okay.  Patient, yes.  Tired, yes.  But okay, yes.

I don't want my puppy to feel lonely.  I don't want dead worms and plants.

It's just that they're babies.  My babies.  For just this once.  I have no choice but to make choices.  The babies are flourishing.

I am stretched thin.

Motherhood?  I'm catching on.

Monday, May 25, 2009

Bunny heads.

I'm supposed to be cleaning my house right now.  I promised myself I would clean today.

Instead, I'm sitting here with one baby sleeping on my lap, the other sleeping in the swing.  This is my slow transition to scheduled nap time.  In a crib.  We're taking baby steps.  I'm on the step called "any damn sleep will do."

I have two little toy bunny blankets shoved inside my bra.

I'd first like to point out that while these little toy bunny blankets are very cute, there's no way to describe them without making them sound horrifying.  I wanted the babies to each have a "lovey," or, less cutely, a "transitional object" to help them self-soothe during separations.  Like nap time.  Cause I keep my eye on the ball.

For mother's day, I got a gift card to  I thought and thought about what I wanted to buy.  Each time I'd visit, I'd start by checking out running watches or Bare Minerals makeup (I'm intrigued) and land on baby clothes and baby toys.  So I did the martyr mother thing.  I used my mother's day gift to buy the babies loveys.  Organic loveys, because really, everything is better when it's organic. Each lovey consists of a soft terrycloth bunny head attached to a flannel blanket.  Apparently, these "transitional objects" are going to soothe my babies when I'm away.  I'm not sure which part of the animal head sewn onto a blanket is supposed to remind my babies of their loving mama.

Hence the bunnies in my bra.  What I lack in resemblance to a bunny head, I intend to make up for in scent.

I'm hoping that if somebody shows up at my door, I remember to remove the bunnies prior to answering it.

I'm also clinging to the hope that these bunnies will help my babies to sleep - if only just a little.  But I'm also hoping that they will help my babies feel like mama is with them when I'm at work.

I've gone back to work.

My heart is broken.

Friday, May 22, 2009

Now it's just about the beer.

I'm running in a 5k on Sunday.

I signed up really only because I thought that it would be cool to casually run my 5k while pushing the jogger containing four month old twins that grew to fruition in my womb.  And I knew that when I came in last, people would hardly notice, because hey - cute babies.

Things have sort of unraveled from my initial plan.  And really, I deserve it, cause I was sort of just trying to be casual-cool-runner-mom.  Devastatingly beautiful, casual, cool, runner-mom.

Turns out you cannot run with babies in our jogger until they're eight months old.  And desperate as I may be to have my babies make me look good, I'm going to trust the manufacturer's advice on this one.

Turns out that even sans babies, I'm clocking a sturdy TWELVE minute mile.

Turns out, I am rarely casual.

Let me repaint the projected image of my 5k in a little color I like to call reality.

I will frantically run the 5k, constantly concerned about the well being of my sweet twins (who will be in the very competent hands of a very competent friend at the finish line), scarcely able to mask my jealously of the women in their nineties who gracefully bound past me like ballerina gazelles.  I probably won't be able to suck in my residual baby bump while I run, and it will jiggle.  Also jiggling will be my breasts, and this is a new, addictive, and marvelous concept for me.  So I probably won't be able to get over my awe that real, live, cleavage attached to my real, live, body is actually bouncing, and I'll spend much of the race looking down and wondering if people can tell that I'm not really Pam Anderson.  I'll also spend much of the race worrying that this jiggling will lead to some sort of tear, and that one of my highly prized boobies will end up SPLAT! on the ground.  I'll force myself to run all the way to the finish line.  Unless I've given in to my little ice cream-for-breakfast habit, in which case I'll develop a torturous cramp and have to walk.  Ach.

And here, my friends, is what will make it all worth it:

This race happens to be at a brewery.  A brewery that gives you beer at the finish line.

I will take my sweet babies in my arms, hike up my shirt, latch on the little guys, and take a long, sweet sip, ignoring (totally not ignoring) all judgment.

I refuse to stop dreaming.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

My vagina: closed for business.

Well, not for ALL business.  If these babies ever allow it, I may have sex again.
But doctorly business?  I'm all set with that.  
After three years of infertility (read: lots of doctorly vagina business) and seven months of pregnancy, I'm done with the stirrups for a while.  
As ridiculous as it seems to consider that I may require contraception, my doctor assured me that I do.  Choosing my form of contraception was a long and thoughtful process for me.  It was also a celebrated process, because hey infertility - look who's calling the shots now!
After much deliberation, I chose a Mirena IUD.  I didn't want something I would have to mess with every day.  I didn't want something that would pump my sweet little babies full of synthetic hormones each time I nursed them.  I did want something that was close to permanent.  I did not want something that actually is permanent.
After many painful fertility treatments, I'm not big on womanly pain.  And since my babies did not travel through my cervix on their way into this world, I thought that perhaps having an IUD shoved through there for the purposes of contraception might be a wee bit uncomfortable.  My doctor, always the honest one, told me to expect three minutes of pain.
Three minutes is a long time.
She told me to take some ibuprofen before coming in for the big event.  I took her advice and took some Vicodin.
And now the Mirena is in.  Three minutes of pain is an accurate analysis.  If I were to describe it in more detail, I might use adjectives like "gut wrenching" or "dear lord is it over yet" pain, but I won't.  Because maybe some of you are considering a Mirena.  
For me, the three minutes were worth it.  Barring anything unexpected (like that ever happens!), my vagina is now closed for all non-routine doctorly business for the next five years. And I kinda like to think that I'm symbolically saying, "infertility?  What?  Who?  Me?  No, no.  I have twin babies.  I require contraception.  It's in my uterus right now, in fact.  All snug and warm. Keeping the nasty infertility away."  And so it is.

Monday, May 18, 2009


I think the world would be a better place if we were all more honest sometimes.  I've always thought how much fun things will be once I'm eighty and can just let it all hang out.  And then I decided (and this could be the lack of sleep talking), why wait?  I'm going to put it all out there right now.  Here are some confessions from my early days of motherhood.

1. I often pick my babies noses.  I sometimes drop their boogies on the floor.  Cause hey - I vacuum.

2. I usually don't change my shirt when I get spit up on.  I wait til I'm really drenched.  I do enough laundry already.

3. I'm working my way through a container of Betty Crocker's milk chocolate frosting.  With a spoon.  I started it yesterday and will probably have put it all away by Sunday morning.  

4. Yesterday I discovered a tube of breast milk that got lost in the back of the fridge.  I could not overcome the urge to check it out a bit before dumping it down the drain.  I was shocked to find it was the consistency of pudding.  I was less shocked to find it tasted like the smell of spit up.

5. I swear at night.  A lot.  "Fuck" (and not in the racy sense) is my word of choice.  As in, "It is 3am.  I have not had five fucking minutes of sleep yet."  

6. I sometimes make my husband (who works full time) get up with the babies at night while I (who does not work full time) sleep.

7. Sometimes I leave dirty diapers on the floor for 8+ hours.  They're pretty patient about when I throw them in the dirty diapers bucket.

8. I let my babies take naps on their bellies.  Even though I was a prenatal social worker and KNOW that Back is Best.  But they sleep longer on their bellies.  And I watch them like a hawk.

9. I suck in my stomach all day long.  Received the compliment recently that I have a "rockin' post-baby bod."  Wondering if I should take a tip from myself and just let my gut hang out.  Feel that sucking in may be a disservice to women.  Realize that perhaps, I'm not fooling anyone.

10.  I recently bought a 12 pack of Cherry Dr. Pepper.  This may not seem like a big deal if you do not know me.  So let me start by explaining that this is the first soda I have EVER purchased. I drink organic green tea and water.  I do not drink soda.  Soda is full of HFCS and I am above that. Except for now that there is a 12 pack of soda in my fridge and I love its delicious naughty goodness.

I'm going to stop at ten.  Perhaps I'll share more later.

Friday, May 15, 2009


So I mentioned that I went to my first mom and baby group this week.  What I didn't mention was that I had attempted to attend the group two weeks ago, only to find that instead, I would be spending the day going through new-mama hazing.

I had planned a day consisting of a trip to Nini Bambini, our local "maternal wellness center" to attend the new mom and baby group (and maybe do a teensy bit of shopping in their very cool store) followed by a trip to the library to stock up.  I was pretty excited, I've got to be honest.  The babies and I don't get out much - especially if you don't count trips to the doctor as "getting out."

I woke up early and showered (bonus).  I put on a little makeup (bonus) because I'm still working on bringing sexy back.  I gave both babies baths (double bonus), nursed them, and put them in clean outfits.  (I don't get any bonuses for nursing and changing clothes.  Those are necessary elements that simply indicate I'm attempting to fulfill my motherly duties).  I loaded up the car, got the babies all snuggly in their car seats, and we were off.

It was a beautiful day - one of those late April days with a calm, lazy warmth and a sudden abundance of color in leaves and flowers and sky.  I pulled out my old Rusted Root CD and sang along as both babies slept.  I was feeling good, and quite competent after my morning's achievements.

About ten miles from my house, as I was carving our way along a rather sharp curve, I felt a pouffy sort of "snap" from the car.  A flat tire?  Then the steering went.  Then some hot air came rushing at me.

Certain that the car was about to explode with both me and my sweet sleeping babies inside, I wrestled us onto the shoulder and shut down the engine.  The hot air went away, and with it, my fears of explosion.  But still, shit.  Because now I'm broken down on a busy road with two babies (and two car seats) and likely no cell service because I live in the middle of nowhere.  And I'm definitely going to miss mom and baby group.

On the bright side, both babies were still sleeping, and through some miracle of nature, I had one bar on my fully charged phone.  I started by calling loving husband.  Voicemail.  I next called loving neighbor.  Machine.  So then I did what any rational mother would do.  I dialed 9-1-1.  

When the operator came on and asked "what's your emergency?" I started to wonder if perhaps this was an abuse of a critical public service.  But then both babies woke up, let out a howl at realizing the car had -GASP!- stopped moving (my babies do not tolerate non-moving vehicles) and any concern over my level of emergency disappeared.  I begged her to send me some assistance. And was slightly surprised when she agreed.

So then I waited.  And waited.  I called my mother who was visiting her parents in Florida, because hey, my mom used to break down all the time and perhaps we could share a laugh.  Or maybe it was because both babies were crying louder, working themselves up to a point where spit up was flying around the backseat almost as thick as the layer of black flies swarming our vehicle.  And I, who cannot handle hearing my babies cry for more than .0000001 seconds, had no choice but to sit pathetically and listen, since as much as crying breaks my heart, it is better than getting smooshed on the side of a busy road as the black flies carry my babies away to suck out all their blood.  So.  I called mommy.

After about 30 minutes, I was relieved to look in the rear view mirror and see blue lights.  I got off the phone with my mom who was insisting that she would send a friend to help.  I assured her I was fine.  "The police are here, and they've sent a big van.  I'm sure they'll take us home."

The officer, a dead ringer for Joe Pesci in Home Alone, swaggered over to my car.  "So have you called someone to help?"

Ah, yup.  You're kinda him, Joe.

Joe Pesci was not very helpful.  I mentioned this briefly before, but perhaps without proper emphasis.  I live in a very small town.  In the middle of nowhere.  Turns out that Joe Pesci was not, in fact, an officer of the law.  He was not, in fact, allowed to help me.  He was not, in fact, driving a big van because he planned to drive us home.

Here's what Joe Pesci was:

An animal control officer.  From the next town over.  Driving a paddy-wagon.  For dogs.

Joe's help consisted of repeatedly berating me for having my windows cracked (silly me - wanting my children to breathe oxygen), lest the babies should be bothered by the black flies. Joe asked if I had a rattle so that he could soothe my hysterical babies.  Yeah, Joe.   A rattle is TOTALLY going to help.  He did, however, run my license and registration, probably just to make sure I hadn't stolen this 12 year old SUV with a rusty fender.  Surely I would call 9-1-1 for assistance in my stolen vehicle.

I called mom back.  Mom sent her friend to help.  Joe Pesci was mildly helpful installing the car seats into our rescuer's car.

And as I stood next to him, eying his paunch, I could hardly overcome the urge to grab his taser gun and ZAP him.  Cause I bet I'm faster than him.

The car had a broken crankshaft pulley.  Or something like that.  

What matters is this: I passed the "broken down on the side of the road with two crying babies" test with what I like to think are flying colors.  I did not cry.  I barely swore.  And most importantly, I did not taser an almost-officer-of-the-law.  And we got home safe and sound and all that stuff too.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

What this feminist looks like.

My mother is mad at feminism.  

While this is somewhat troubling to me as a feminist, I can't say I blame her.  For better or for worse, sometimes one bad experience is enough to sour us on something that is otherwise wonderful.  My mother happened to become a mother in the midst of the second wave of feminism, when women were divided over whether to choose mothering or to choose career.  Her children grew up in the midst of debate over "superwoman syndrome" as women attempted to re-forge the divide between work and family and "have it all."  My mom spent time in both camps.  As small children, we were lucky to have her at home with us.  As we grew older, she went back to school, got her Masters degree in education, and went to work a second job (the first being mother) as a teacher.  I know that all of these decisions were difficult and the result of careful thought.  I know that no decision was without sacrifice.  So I can understand why this woman, very much a feminist herself, was hurt when the implications came that women who stayed at home to mother were doing a disservice to women by leaving the workforce.

As a proud third-wave feminist, I know that whether she identifies as one or not, my mother is still very much a feminist.  I've tried to explain this to her.  I've encouraged her to make up with feminism - to cozy up with a nice glass of Cab and Manifesta or to hang out at and see for herself that things have changed.  

But doesn't this point out that beyond the obvious work that still needs to be done, feminism needs to reach out and make amends?  Toes were stepped on in the getting to today - and crushed toes aren't likely to go running back for more.  Feminism needs to reach out and make up.  As a mom to two sweet boys, both future feminists, I have a role to play here.  All feminists have a role to play here.  The third wave is fabulous - all third wavers (and hopefully most feminists) know this.  But me knowing that I'm great only takes me so far.  At some point, I need others to recognize it, too.

One of my favorite shirts is one that says, "This is what a feminist looks like."  Shouldn't all feminists make a pact to wear this slogan once a month, all on the same day?  I've had this shirt since my college days as a member of my school's Feminist Collective group.  Back then, my favorite way to wear it was with a mini skirt, killer heels, and some trashy makeup.  A few years out of school, it became my favorite shirt for chores around the house; a second and equally important manifestation of my feminist identity.  Eventually, paint stains rendered it inappropriate for anything other than manual labor and trips to the hardware store.  

As a mother, my "what a feminist looks like" shirt has come into use again.  Clothes designed to make breastfeeding convenient and discrete do no favors for women, in my opinion.  Don't we want to make breastfeeding at least a little bit obvious?  Is it so shameful that it must be covered up by matronly dresses with discrete flaps for ever so careful latch-ons? And let's not discuss the inequalities of cost associated with nursing wear.  Shouldn't clothing with holes cost less?  Isn't it bad enough that women pay more for clothes than men?  With nursing wear, aren't we just financially sticking it to breastfeeding mothers a second time over?

I decided to design my own clothes for breastfeeding.  Out from the bottom of my drawer came my feminist shirt.  With a pair of dull kitchen shears, I cut a ragged hole over each boob for easy access.  I was quite satisfied to find that my craftiness didn't require cutting over any of the text. So now my shirt reads: (boob) "This is what a feminist looks like" (boob).  And since I burned all my bras, all I have to do is layer a shirt on top, and when it's time to nurse, I have an easy access, ready to go, insta-meal.

A baby on each boob, paint stains on my shirt.  That's what this feminist is looking like these days.

Monday, May 11, 2009

My house is a dump. I do not say this with love.

Everyone told me that life would change once the babies were born. I had sort of gathered that myself as well. But one of the big changes I was told to plan for was in the housekeeping department. As in, let it go. Your house will not be clean.

Okay. I'm hearing you. What I'm wondering is, where's the twelve step program? Cause this girl likes a clean house. I have standards. And if you just want me to *poof* - let them go, well I'm going to need some help with that. Here's my pre-baby cleaning schedule. Don't judge:

Clean the kitchen. This includes running the dishwasher, sweeping, cleaning the stove off, etc.

Make the bed.
Wash and fold any and all dirty laundry. Put said laundry away.

Many times a week:
Clean the bathroom. Toilet, sink, counter tops, tub. Sweep and wash floor.
Vacuum. For the love of god, vacuum.

Change sheets on the bed.
Clean bedroom.
Dust entire house.
Wipe down television and electronics.
Water all plants. This is not actually a cleaning exercise. But it does keep the foliage alive.
Wash bathmats.
Wash all floors.
Wash cabinets.
Wash main windows.
Wipe down woodwork.

God - just writing about it all makes me feel all tingly and satisfied. Until I remember that those pretty lists are no more. The foliage is dying.

Here's my post-baby cleaning schedule. Don't judge:

(There is no plan! Dear lord, I am winging it - flying by the seat of my pants! There is no plan! No PLAN!!!)

And here's the proof:

This is my bedroom. In this particular case, somebody has done laundry. Note that the laundry remains in the basket. It has been there for over five weeks. Also, note the container of wipes. I almost shouldn't admit that the container does not hold fresh, new wipes. Rather, it contains dried up, dirty, used wipes from late night changes. That's right folks. Dehydrated poop particles. I'm keeping them in a plastic container in my bedroom. Because.
This is the "family bed." Note the crib directly adjacent. Nobody sleeps in this crib. Because my babies flip the f*** out if you put them in a crib. You may also note the moses baskets in the crib, signifying a desperate, yet failed, attempt to lure the babies into the crib. Look, babies. Soft and cozy baskets. What? No? You want to sleep with mommy and daddy instead? And puke little baby vomitus on us all night? Well okay then. I should add that while you may not be able to see it, let alone smell it, there is most certainly three to four gallons of dried spit up on those sheets. Mostly around the head and pillow area.

This is our nursery. No babies sleep in here. Rather than letting the room go to waste, we now store the air mattress against the wall. For emergencies where loving husband gets kicked out of bed by mommy. Because dear lord - there are four of us in a puke encrusted bed.

So my secret is out. Do not expect an invitation over to my house.

And I have to be honest. I'll find the time to clean this disaster long before I learn to accept it. Because while I am all about acceptance - I am sleeping in dried vomit.

Friday, May 8, 2009

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Rolling Over

Rhys rolled over today.  We called daddy at work and left him a message.  I told him what a sweet and talented little baby he is.   And then my heart broke a tiny bit.

Maybe it's because I know these are probably the only two babies I will ever have, or maybe it's because I love them so much that it hurts to breathe.  Regardless of the reason, I cannot stop watching my babies grow.  I cannot get away from the acute awareness that every beautiful new development is a step away from me.  Yet I understand that this is the goal: healthy babies that grow into healthy children that grow into healthy adults.

As their mother it is my job to help them in this process.  To provide, to guide, to nurture, to love. I adore being their mother.  I thrive on the knowledge that it is up to me to teach them about the world and to shape them into amazing human beings.  I am giddy with babyhood - where they are mine and I am theirs.  I am painfully aware that things will not always be this way.  

And so I take a thousand pictures too many.  I stare at them as they sleep and try to burn the image into my mind's eye.  I relish every opportunity to nibble their chubby little cheeks and feet.  I sit and know contentment as I listen to them coo. I am without words every time I nuzzle their fluffy tufts of hair with my cheek.  

I know that some day, they will not be so tolerant of my endless adoration.  The time will come when they won't want me to kiss them in public.  When I will embarrass them.  When the sheer sight of my face will no longer produce an unrestrained, glowing, and gummy smile.

Because in many ways, motherhood is a game of catch and release.  My job as a mother is not simply to love and to nurture, but to work towards letting go.  Bit by bit, it is my job to loosen the reins.  

And so I'm practicing mindful mothering.  It is my feeble attempt to hit pause.  To stay in this place of sleep smiles, gurgles, and crying that can only be soothed by a good long nursing.  Yet I know that no matter how well I do in my mindfulness, this time will still pass.

It is the bitterest bitter.  It is the sweetest sweet.

Friday, May 1, 2009

And I don't even miss my tv.

Here's my dirty little secret: I LOVE television.  

Given the slightest excuse, I've been known to spend an entire day parked on the couch watching god knows what.  I have what I like to believe is a discriminating but wide palate for programming. Most recently, I was totally into Planet Green.  I'd sit and drool over World's Greenest Homes, although I have to say that while I endured it, "Living with Ed" really sucks. Sorry, Ed Begley Junior.  But I just don't know who you are.  Or care.  Even though you're living green, which I really, really like.  And your wife's a bitch.  Sorry 'bout that.

Anyway.  Despite my deep love for TV, we've tossed around the idea of GETTING RID OF IT for a while.  Not the TV itself.  But the shiny and pretty shows that flow into it from outer space. Because for one, it's expensive.  And suddenly having two babies in the middle of a recession means getting serious about being frugal.  (We all know this is an excuse.  Recession, shmession. I'm just frugal.  Or cheap.  Maybe a little bit cheap.  And I say "suddenly" having two babies, like "WHOOPS!" too much wine and here I am knocked up.  Now we all know that didn't happen). Anyway.

It also made sense to get rid of the TV because of this:

Well, that's a bit staged.  But here's what's not:

That's right.  In this picture we have my sweet husband changing a diaper, which is fabulous. Now he's a bit distracted by the TV, and so it's likely that he may not fasten it properly thus leading to some leakage.  But leakage I can handle.  And do, daily.  What I would rather not handle is the smaller human being in that picture - happily watching TV at about 8 weeks of age. 

So we sent DirectTV back their little box of magic.  Interestingly, they sent us a return kit, including packing tape, a box, and padding.  The box was about 16" by 16" and probably 6" tall. What I found interesting were the instructions, that warned us NOT to put the satellite dish in the return box.  Phew.  Thanks for the warning, DirectTV.  Because truly, I was considering climbing onto my roof, dismantling the dish, and cramming it into a box the size of a small suitcase.

And then the magic pictures were gone.  I expected to grieve.  I braced myself.  Waited for it. But it didn't happen.  I wholly expected to be bored out of my mind.  (Do you hear the insanity here? I have three month old twins.  Twins with colic - and reflux - and I expected boredom?) 

But instead of grief, instead of boredom, I've found some space, and quiet.  Because while I love having Jerry, Elaine, and Kramer (not George.  I do not like George.  I know you're not supposed to, but I really dislike him.  On top of the pre-planned dislike masterminded by the folks at NBC.) keep me company from 7pm-8pm every night while I nurse/rock/cook dinner, eventually they get kind of obnoxious.  

Still, I'm no saint.  This house hasn't gone completely dry.  We've discovered Hulu (hi, Hulu. Kisses and hugs.  Please don't go away).  Hulu keeps me sane and informed about the important happenings on The Office and 30 Rock.  And while I'm super embarrassed and have to say this very quietly, keeps me apprised of the happenings on a show I love and adore and want to kiss, kiss, kiss.  And so can I also just mention that Simon Cowell, I love you truly and deeply.   Anyway.

I don't need my TV anymore.  I feel so free.

But seriously, DirectTV: you advised me not to put it in the box.  Soooo.  Are you gonna come get this dish?