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Monday, Aug. 11, 2003 - 9:16 P.M.

Double Shots!


Today's weight: 203 pounds Original Weight: 212.5 Total loss: 9.5 pounds


You know, the next person who says they always wanted a pair of twins is going to get my freaking fist in their mouth!

Isn't this supposed to get easier? I mean, when they were babies, I kept thinking that each stage would give me a piece of respite. Every night I dragged my REM-deprived body out of bed in the middle of the night and dropped my limp body into the rocking chair so I could position them at the same time to nurse, one on each teat like piglets sidling up to the sow. I rocked and they suckled and I wondered when the hell it would get easier. And then they weaned themselves and I had to lug around formula and bottles for and diapers and extra clothes and wipes and powder and butt creme and eventually baby foods and then snacks and toys and coloring books... When they learned to crawl they went in opposite directions, and as soon as they learned to walk they began to run...in opposite directions. When they went the same way, one would do something like push the other down the stairs.

Trips to the Dr. were pure hell. Everyone thinks it's so cool, seeing 2 babies being carried in at once. There was no way I could manage the baby seats all by myself, so unless I had someone to go with me (which I often did), I just carried them, one in each arm, and pray that neither would start to slip. They never got sick all alone, they shared every germ. Sick visits were a real bitch.

But worse than sick visits were "well" visits. Because for "well" visits you are taking in 2 healthy and happy kids and leaving with 2 screaming maniacs who will make your life a living hell for the next 48-72 hours. I hated it. I never knew which one to have go first. If Finchie went first, he was completely inconsolable, and didn't allow me to attend to the Beast. He was so sad and hurt when he got shots. If Beast went first, she felt so assaulted that she screamed like a banshee, and that would scare Finchie and he would begin crying before it was his turn.

After Finchie got his shots, he would drag his leg behind him or, worse yet, refuse to move at all for days on end. That, in turn, made his leg stiffer and more sore, and the cycle continued. I'd have to place his bottle out of his reach to try and coax him to move. Beast was so active than she pretty much worked out the stiffness in a day.

It had to get easier, it just had to.

When it came time for their High School shots, 2 years ago, the national supply of Tetanus shots was depleted due to a manufacturing shutdown. So they had to wait. Just about the time the supply was back to normal, 911 happened, and we were told to hold off yet again for the soldiers. Not a problem, they were happy to oblige. We sort of forgot all about it for awhile. Then when I was looking at their registration packets which came in the mail 2 months ago, I found that they had to register TODAY or TOMORROW and there was a note in there saying that if the students didn't have their shots, they couldn't register. GOD DAMMIT! I mean really, WHY does this stuff fly up on me when I try so hard to be like June Cleaver and all organized???

So I was up a creek, called the Doc's office and wept a bit and got them into the office this evening to get the shots.

Before we got out of the kitchen door, Beast called "Shotgun!" and gloated all the way to the Povertymobile. She blasted Country and Western music the whole way there, while Finchie fretted about his ulcer and how this was upsetting it worse. We sat in the waiting room an unforgivable amount of time and I decided that they were old enough for me to not have to go in with them. Finchie wanted to be in a separate room, and was irritated when I told him that since it was just going to be a nurse giving them the shot that they would likely be in the same room for time's sake. So it was my turn to be irritated when the nurse called them and said that I had to go in too since I had to sign a paper.

We no sooner got into the room than they began arguing about who would be first. But instead of them wanting the other to be "it," they each wanted to get it over with. Before it could get too ugly, I decided to toss a coin. After a brief debate over who would call heads or tails, Beast told Finchie to make the call. He did. He lost. I signed the paper, and asked to be excused. As I left the room, Beast was challenging her as to why she had to have the shot in her left arm. ~sigh~

When they came back to the waiting room, they were both complaining that it had stung quite a bit. I explained that it was probably the alcohol prep that caused it, but hey, what do I know? I encouraged them to keep working their arms so that they wouldn't get stiff. Finchie went into a flailing pattern, the nurse thought he was having a seizure. I think she was very glad when we left.

Finchie got out of the office before Beast and I, and he ran to the elevator and tried to lock us out. He failed. When the elevator door closed, he called out "Shotgun," only to get Beast's reply that there was a "2 feet rule," meaning that you couldn't call shotgun until both feet were out of the door. As Finchie protested, I could help but remember him coming out of the bathroom door only to be met with "SHOTGUN" quite a few times last school year...but the what do I know? Finchie pitched quite a bitch about it, all the way out of the doors, until his second foot was out and mid sentence he yelled "SHOTGUN!"

Isn't this supposed to get easier?

I think I'm the one who needs a shot. Make it a double!


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