I never intended for this blog to be a life-through-rose-colored-glasses look at our life. I just tend to be a positive person. BUT, this week has given me a run for my money with the girls. In a I’ve-considered-changing-my-identity-and-moving-back-to-Nantucket kind of way. Just thoughts, not actions.

Last Friday was Greg’s company picnic. So you know I had to put the girls in matching outfits. ERROR #1: NEVER let the Universe know you are planning something cute. The day was going horribly anyway. Sara and Kelly both melted down in JoAnn Fabrics (because I dared to take them on ONE errand). Sara smacked Kelly. No one would nap. Blah Blah Blah. And somehow they both managed to get diarrhea. Just enough to notice, not enough that they were truly sick. ERROR #2: Never dress kids with the runs in matching outfits until you are mere seconds away from the picnic. Needless to say, it didn’t take long for everyone to be wearing their back up outfits, which were not NEARLY as cute as the matching outfits sent to us by Greg’s cousin.

And because I like to tempt the Gods, I decided to kick our Mural Project up a notch. I often roll shipping paper across the foyer and pull out art supplies. I got bored with markers, and apparently so did Sara because she bit the entire head off the purple marker. Sara likes to make CERTAIN things are non-toxic. So I bought a tub of foam shapes and some glitter glue. Why? Because I’m a moron. ERROR #3: Don’t kid yourself that a small tub of foam shapes is small. 8 oz of foam shapes dumped out could cover the entire earth, let alone my house. ERROR #4: Glitter glue. A 2 year old. I’ll let you do the math.

Yesterday because I couldn’t take anymore of being in the house with Sara’s attitude, I loaded us up for one of our many trips to the Children’s Museum. Thank God for memberships and the endless fun we’ve had inside that building. Kelly was having nothing to do with the snugli. Whine fuss fuss, until Sara WIPED out in Playscape, tripping over her push mower, landing right into the baby bird and insects display. (It’s fake, not live animals, or this post would be even longer). Both girls in my arms screaming bloody murder, I lift them both up and start heading for the door. Kelly wailing with Sara crying at the top of her lungs, “I HURT MY BUTT. I POOPIED IN MY PANTS!”. Both statements were equally true. ERROR #5: Girls in a bad mood at home will be in a worse mood at the Children’s Museum.

To the car where Kelly continued to melt down for an additional 15 solid minutes. Anyone whom has held a 2 month old screaming for 15 minutes straight in a mini-van feels my pain. It got so bad that Sara stopped saying, “It’s Otay Baby”, and started with, “It’s Otay Mommy”. Greg called as I got her to calm down and eat, and asked, “What are you eating?”. “Doritoes”, I replied. “Doritoes? Really?”. To which I calmly said, “This one chip is the only thing standing between me and suicide.”

Now here’s the deal Universe; next week I’m taking Kelly for Mother/Daughter portraits. Just as I did with Sara at 3 months. We’re wearing matching outfits and I’m telling you now: bring me your best because they’re BLACK. If we BOTH POOP THEM OFF and puke milk all over ourselves, we will wipe off and continue on our journey to the Sears Portrait Studio. I’m getting those pictures Fate, so kiss my arse ahead of time.

To end, I went to bed at 8:30 last night.  With my clothes on and my hair half out of my perpetual ponytail.  You can’t win ’em all.  You can however change 16 diapers in one day, sprain your wrist trying to juggle a pumpkin seat and a toddler, and OD on Tylenol for the permanent shoulder spasm that comes from carrying around squirmy girls.  It’s a beautiful life (yes Daddy Keith, I’m referring to our inside joke), but it ain’t all perfect.