Mama May I writes

Mom of twins

A sea of blue

I’m surrounded by a sea of blue. Everywhere I turn to look, blue looks back at me.

Blue sparkles  when they giggle and laugh. Blue darkens when they cry. Blue shines at me through the blackness of the bedrooms.

I am hazel to their blue. An outsider, but still, I am one of them. He writes songs about it. She points out our difference in the mirror. They love my hazel and get lost in it, just like I get lost in their blue.

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Please stop pointing out the obvious

I hate when people tell me how small my children are. Oh really? I have never noticed.

And they always do it in “that” voice. You know the one I’m talking about. Yes, you do. The slightly high-pitched, sing-songy voice. “Is he really six months? Ooh…he’s so sma-all. How much does he weigh?”

None of your damn business.

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A letter to my children

My darling little ones,

Every time I look at you, you impress me with new knowledge, new skills. I see you teach yourself how to play, and watch as you attempt to sit up and crawl; climb and balance. My daredevils.

As this year comes to an end, I can only think of what the next year will bring us. Many more adventures for our family, many more good times than we have had in recent times, many more silent wishes I keep in my heart.

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Pooped with poop

Quite frankly, I’m a person who can roll with whatever punches come my way. Something comes up and there is a change of plans? I can do that. Having to be creative financially or during gift giving season? I’m on it. I can handle it with ease and grace.



When it comes to my sleep.

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So beautiful

As I soap up my hands and run the shampoo through Caitlin’s hair, I often find myself thinking back to when she was an infant. A tiny baby, no more than a few weeks old, laying peacefully on the mesh bath supporter. I can see myself, my feet inside the tub, my jeans rolled up, washing her gently. My baby girl. I can see Chris standing, leaning against the doorway, watching us both. He starts to tell me a story, a story he was told at work by a client after it was announced his baby girl had been born.

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The one in which my panic starts to rise because I only have 3 and 7 months before birthdays

I am ready for this massacre of a holiday season to end.

For reals, ‘yo.

I am running out of space for the mass quantities of gifts my children are receiving from my family. I am actually contemplating getting rid of a desk we don’t use to make room for everything. They are getting a (rather large) indoor/outdoor slide for crying out loud. That doesn’t include the table and chair set the girl is getting, or the freaking tea set or gazillion dolls. Or the TWO musical creeper tables and Lil’ Zoomers huge thing a-ma-bobber my little He-Man is getting.

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What do cashiers say…

cashier“Hiiiiii,” the young cashier drawls. She has short, bleach-blonde hair, bright blue eyes and the shadow to match. The only thing taking away from all of the brightness around her eye area is the siren-red red lipstick she’s wearing. There’s a noticeable line running across her jaw line that divides foundation from real skin.

I stop piling my groceries on the conveyor belt to smile at her. “Hi,” I say back. “How are you?”

But she’s not listening to me. She’s got one of my Uncle Ben’s Bistro Express packets in her hands and she’s peering down at it. I watch her, sort of arrange my food on the belt a bit so as not to make it completely obvious, but I’m thinking what’s up with the rice, girl? It’s kind of creepy, how interested she is in my rice.

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What to do for my birthday party

When I turned one my mom roasted a chicken for my birthday. She roasted two the next year and three the year after that. By the time we got to four she was roasting Cornish game hens.


She drew the line at five.

Back in the day I had a stuffed dog named Doobie and thought a family of ants lived in my throat and would crawl out and dance on my face when I was sleeping.

When I was nine I found out my stepmother was having a baby and I got pink plastic glasses. I loved them. I was ten when my first brother was born; twelve when my second brother came. I will never forget how proud I was to say I was a sister; I thought they were the most beautiful, amazing things in the entire world.

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What About Wacky Pet Names

A few months ago Dave’s mom offered to take Julia for the night and after we ditched her and ran dropped her off we took Oliver out for dinner. We’d never had dinner out with just him and the three of us had a blast – he charmed the pants off our waitress and in doing so, scored us unlimited baskets of these buttery, calorie-laden cheese buns that come before the main course. We stuffed ourselves silly, waddled to the car and headed home.

It was a beautiful evening; we rolled the windows down and turned the tunes up, and as we were driving we passed a rather obese guy zipping along the shoulder of the road on a four-wheeler. With more class and couth than ever before, Dave leaned out the window and shouted, “Whassup, fattie?” at the top of his lungs. The guy had a helmet on and (thankfully) didn’t hear him, but a certain two-year-old boy in the backseat did. Ever since then, whenever Oliver sees someone on a motorcycle or any sort of all-terrain vehicle he shouts things like, “Whassup, fattie?”

or “That’s a fattie, Mummy! Right dere!”

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Why you love your Mother

inspiring-photoJust as I was coming downstairs from putting my little darlings to bed last night I saw my dad’s car pull in the driveway. He was on his way home from his regular Sunday night dinner at my Gram’s and swung by to discuss recent developments in her 90th birthday plans. I ushered him through the house and out to the sun porch quickly, lest my children hear the sound of Papa Funk’s voice and go bananas, prolonging their date with the Sandman even further. We sat on the porch as the night closed in around us and chatted about the party, and after a few minutes Dave came out to join us.

(An aside: No, it’s not a typo. Julia and Oliver call my father Papa Funk. It stems from an old family nickname and he wears the moniker well; it suits his personality quite nicely. Up until about two months ago Oliver couldn’t say “Funk” and called him Papa Hunk, which was endearing in that my kid is totally hilarious kind of way.)

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